Robert K. Johnson
Born in New York City (in Elmhurst), I lived in several different places there but have memories only of The Bronx (off Fordham Road). Then my family moved out "on The Island"—to Lynbrook, where we stayed till I graduated from Hofstra (then a College). Several years after my wife, Pat, and I married, we, plus our two children, settled in the Boston area and have remained there (except for my daughter, Kate, who has lived in Manhattan for quite a while). I have been writing poetry since I was twelve (many moons ago).
You drive through the deepening dusk
toward the supper waiting for you;
and savor the day's successes
that your fund of knowledge brought you.
Until, when you look up,
the street shows you a brick house,
two stuccos, three more of brick
you've never seen before
and you wonder: Where am I?
—then see a three-story house
you've often imagined owning,
and your cheeks burn with humbleness.
DEEP IN THE JOURNEY
(for a relative)
After decades of brief
but always lively chats
at noisy family gatherings,
I happen to be alone with you
where you lie in a hospital bed,
your drugged eyes barely open.
by a surge of sadness—
I see the two of us, aged and grey,
clinging to a lifeboat
overturned near a shore
that only I will be able to reach.
How can it be we were never more
than mere acquaintances?
previously published in IBBETSON STREET
©2018 Robert K. Johnson
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