Turns

Rochester Charlie is a panel away
coughing up a lung in his slum across the hall,
no different than my own, and I am struck
by the idea that he will never have sex again,
and that I think might be crying in-between the
darkness and the divider. He is pitiable but unwelcome
and even the dog glares at the thin wall, wanting nothing
more than to be left to the quiet darkness, to sleep
on this side of the panel that separates us from him.

I do not know if he will die tonight, or if the sun will
shine on his face again. Tonight, he has only the moon,
framed in the window, raping the sun’s brilliance,
shining absurdly in the night sky, a ridiculous pretender.

I imagine someone should be notified, or maybe
someone should help him get clean. An angel
must walk the streets, some caring soul who might
stumble upon him in the sunshine, and smell his presence.
One who sees through his matted hair and notices the
protrusion of his ribs. I know angels exist; there are
women who reach out with clean hands, pale hands,
hands that can save a man.

I do not know if Rochester will die tonight, or if the world
will turn into tomorrow, arresting the imposturous moon,
revealing the sun or an angel for him—perhaps the last
one, leaving nothing for me.