the anguished voice of a friend
crossed-legged alone
on a couch
hunched-over
head in hands
lamenting what seems to him a never-ending struggle with inauthenticity
just a few feet from the arm-chair
that holds me
with him in the bosom
of a spiritual growth group
the guileless eyes
of an eighteen-month-old
grand-daughter
sitting in a high chair
just a foot or so from me at the supper table
just watching
knowing my face
but not really yet knowing whether
across the chasm
of my busy self-containment
I am friendly and fun
a tug at my heart's coat
a knocking at my door
lament and longing alike
call through the keyhole
can brian come out to play?
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