poor, dear robby. in spite
of all your training and
all your brilliance, you
could never make
much sense of me -- or of
pascal either, for that
matter -- the two wacky
women from anna head.
but you loved me anyway,
effortlessly, without
thought, not clown-like,
mindless and faithful,
but like a warrior --
with courage
and honor and pride.
you said you'd
always wait for me and
you have, in spite of the
customary annoyances:
that incessant
whispering, the hopeful
predictions of failure,
explorations of motive.
(nothing particularly
clever here, i'm afraid.)
still, i must whisper now
into your ear
asking you to wait again,
for another ten,
perhaps a thousand,
years - but without
smiles this time, or kisses,
or even your lunch.
can you do it ?
oh can you?
