Poetry

waiting for the ophthalmologist to call

our names. Two grandmotherly types

are conversing loudly, oblivious to our

stares. It seems they haven’t met

in sixty years. Not since

they fought together in the

War of Independence. And now, this

chance encounter. They’ve

dispensed with the present and

are fishing up names from their

briefly shared past. Each in turn

dangles a name, waiting for a whoop

of recognition. Sometimes the proffered name

elicits only a deep sigh. I have no trouble

following their shorthand dialogue.

The names are all familiar. Heroes

of my childhood. Giants.

And two of them are sitting

right there before me. Two pleasant

old ladies with failing

eyesight, exchanging memories

from the time of my rebirth.

I listen, and await my turn.

May 2007

First published in Poetica magazine, on-line