White Lead
The last time we spoke you were reclining in a sanitary bed, surrounded by the baby white wires and curtains made of lead. You were across from me, your sagacious eyes casting shadows, your breath drawing little fine lines in the misty haze of your slumber. I didn’t know you. Yet, I did, like the way people often do when they are thrust headlong into a maelstrom of pumping blood and aerobic lightning. Were we once friends, you and I, drifting along a banded causeway? For some reason I remember you there and not in that bed. I remember a newfound joy in company. I remember a smile full of teeth that reflected the memories of coffees in cafes, conversations about nations, picks and hammers and crowded buses. There were moments in your laugh lines where I could have sworn I became a part of you. Perhaps I have always been a part of you. Perhaps, though, I am thinking you another. Your hands, soft and translucent, used to hard labor, rest on your chest, p