SONG

This is the song of those who live alone,
who, when the boat has sailed, the plane has flown,
the train is gone,
turning from an open space to a closed one,
are confronted by other visitors --
promiscuous affection, impotent devotion.

Too little and too late! Too much and much too soon.
When the heart has lost its wisdom,
how shall it be educated?
How, living in a room of more than ordinary view,
can the view be delimited
or the room contain two --
not one and a multitude?

Watchers from behind curtained windows,
receivers of a monthly letter,
lingerers under the arches of bridges,
driftwood and fine-edition collectors,
artists, all of you, in all save living,
pariahs and saints -- this song is for you.
--William Justema