Hours

By George Stieglitz

In the first hour of that day

in the first last minutes

of the first last hours

of that day

When the tea has been drunk and the dogs

long-since buried

in photographs and paintings

correctly hung,

And the grandmothers in their

grandmotherly way

peer like birds from their individual pages

And the voices of children (our children)

are as persuasive as time

On that day, perhaps,

our hands will find their usual spaces,

our lips their usual spaces

“Come down, now,” you might say

and I’ll resist

but come down, anyway,

as I always do

to find

breakfast tea

French toast,

chairs back

the sun not quite up.

On that day I’ll remember that your gray hair

was blond when I met you

but I will not remember

that it changed.

Perhaps the wind will be strong and one of us

will say, “Hear that wind! How fierce!” which will bring

a smile

to one of us, having heard the phrase so many times

we can not bear not hearing it.

Then the first glance of daylight,

the first delight of morning

the first hour

the first last minutes

of the first last hours

of that day

we’ll sit

in our usual places

and our hands will find

their usual spaces

our lips

their usual spaces

And we’ll remember

cities, highways, towns lost to the backs of trains,

bright parks

mouths as moist and cool as morning

dog walkers with grins as broad as Broadway.

And on that day

it will enter our home as humble as a servant,

“Come now,” it will say

as if more in suggestion than command,

and I’ll resist,

wanting my breakfast

you wanting your tea.

“Come now,” it will say

and I’ll resist

wanting to lie with you again, the

twelve-thousandth time.

“Come now,” it will say,

“Come now,” again

And what will it be?—

your head your nose your

hair that will keep me

your breasts, your

fingers that will keep me

or nothing

substantial

or nothing at all?

Will I hear you

cry

in that last minute

or myself?

Will I hear my shoes (nearly as old as the dogs)

squeak in that morning light?

*****

George Stieglitz reports that he lives in a cottage in Halifax, which he fashioned with his own hands, and that he raises pure-bred Siamese cats which he gives away to willing friends and relatives. He also reports that this poem was written for a woman nicknamed Beth who visits him every few days and brings him tea and pies.