Water pellets raced upward in the neon,
light in the bar
I watch your animated face,
your pea green tee shirt and apple-red sweatshirt.
You speak of Michael.
At that moment he glimpsed our way in the bar.
The pain in his blood-red eyes reflects in yours tonight.
You said each day you rode the green line, 10 miles
to the hospital.
Michael has a tumor in his brain.
sometimes he talked.
He told you no more dates. No.
He asked you to leave.
It’s too painful to run on a Boston street in the rain,
or tan on Cape Cod.
I look away at the shimmering water-tank
as your young face asks why him, not me?