He was old, and I was young, he was from afar, and I had never left.

The eggs grew cold as the clock grew bold,

Chiming, as though it thought something bereft.

His pea-green coat held photographs; he showed me three of his children,

I told him about my old dog, who had died.

We both wondered often about Heaven.

The glass before him was filled with new water, which he drank as though he had

Never drank anything so pure.

I watched his eyes, and, to my surprise, there was something hidden in them,

Something dark, to be sure.

But I hated when others would question myself, my thin, bony fingers, or my delicate frame,

So I held back on asking why his hands always trembled,

Why his eyes so resembled the falling of rain.

 

Eventually, when the clock struck half-past three,

Another man came in to give order to me.

I stood up and thanked my friend, for giving up his time,

And, turning to leave (the clock naïve, continuing to chime),

But he called out my name.

I turned, to better see his face.

On his wrist, I could see now,

A very faint trace:

Six numbers were inked inside of his skin.

Two zeros, a five, a three, and a ten.

I remember his face when he saw where I looked.

It was shaded and weary, but not without a strange smile.

When I whispered to him, my own troubled voice shook,

But he didn’t seem darkened, and considered awhile.

 

When the clock in the corner struck seven past seven, I raced for the door,

And stepped out into Heaven.

Above me, the sun, scarlet light, began sinking.

Stars poked out from hiding,

And mountains stood, deeply thinking.

A cool, evening breeze blew back worries and hair.

I remembered my friend,

 

And I

 

Felt.

 

He was there.

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