Contrition

What day is it, he asked

and looked shaken, dis-

eased, close to dis-

aster, the stars were

showing themselves,

with there minute

twinkle, more than

his eyes, which were

receding, receding.

This was Monday.



What day is it, he asked

and this was a good day

for him, he was shining

with welcome to all of his

visitors, flowers in arm.

This day will be a

memory without shame,

a streak of energy,

enough to pose.

This was Tuesday.



What day is it, he asked,

his cheeks were sunken in

but at least he was eating

the trayed meal, twenty-

one a week, he joked,

I might finish a dozen

if my stomach’s not meek.

He began to show a deep

calm, an earned candor.

This was Wednesday.



What day is it, he asked,

today he wanted the window

open to let in a wind

but the window would not

open so he sighed and

eyed the outside, the trees

in the yard dancing, for

a long time. He recalled

some saying about storms.

This was Thursday.



What day is it, he asked

and asked as well that day

to be taken out, nowhere

special, down the hall.

His steps would have made

an imprint if he weighed

another ounce; as it was

he, waiflike, wandered

the halls in his white robe.

This was Friday.



What day is it, he asked

but he didn’t have anything

to say to another, I have

expressed my truth, he said

with a certain defiance, there

is no more. He would sit

with anyone who would still

come in a silence too thin

to be dreaded; sole silence.

This was Sunday’s eve.



What day is it, he asked.

He wanted his visiting son

to find the passage with

the numbers, the numbers

of times to forgive.

The son fumbled with

the foreign text. Seventy

times seven, the son said.

Oh, he laughed, and slept.