By Richard Fein

We were on the bed, not quite arm in arm.
Her head rested on my shoulder;
This time I didn't stroke her hair,
there had been too many other times.
Fog had placed its cataract on the window.
Thorazine had pulled up her eyes.
Nothing was said.
We heard only mumbling down the corridor
and a distant cry.
It was five o'clock, leaving time.
She rose and walked as if wired
to a drunken puppeteer.
My legs were numb, yet I relished the tingling pain.
One last walk down the ward together; we didn't kiss.
I let the first elevator pass,
every floor number was lit in turn,
all the way down and up again.
The doors opened. I rushed in. We didn't kiss.
The doors would not close. They kept hugging me,
as I stood on the threshold.
Embrace, release, embrace, release, till
at last a fellow passenger touched my shoulder
and whispered it's leaving time.
Through the window, she gave me the slightest wave.
I was motionless, gravity conquered my arms.
My eyes were fixed on the window
until I saw her face ascend out of view.



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