Goodnight

The bistros, cafes, restaurants, bars and clubs are busy this Saturday night, as are the streets and boulevards which connect them. It's colder than it should be this time of year, but everything is in bloom. The air is filled with the aroma of lilacs, mulch and car exhaust. Busy nature. Busy people.

I close my eyes to it and say, "goodnight," with a little music on the radio and some medication to help me sleep. The living in the courtyard below, and beyond into the city, have about as much to do with me and my life as the ammonia seas and crater-scarred continents of planets light-years away.

You are all far away from me right now, despite your proximity. I am behind stone, no longer a part of anything that moves. There is nostalgia.

As I take comfort in a missive from the Front, I say, "Goodnight" again.

Because hate is legislated . . . written into

the primer and testament,

shot into our blood and brain like vaccine or vitamins

Because our day of time, of hours --- and the clock-hand turns,

closes the circle upon us; and black timeless night

sucks us in like quicksand, receives us totally ---

without a raincheck or a parachute, a key to heaven or the last long look

I need love more than ever now . . . I need your love,

I need love more than hope or money, wisdom or a drink

Because slow negative death withers the world and only yes

can turn the tide

Because love has your face and body . . . and your hands are tender

and your mouth is sweet ---- and God has made no other eyes like yours.

Walter Benton