Six Square Blocks
BY DAVID BAKER
Midnight. I take my last breath. Then—how it is—another—
Who are you close-walking beside me? We’re like a foot—
And the shadow of a foot, that close, like a faint blue star—
And the same star, there, in the puddle at my foot—that far—
* * *
Dear shadow. I’m thinking of the imponderables tonight—
Such a paradox. The neighborhood quiet as a sock. Six blocks—
Around I go, haunted by the quiet, measuring quiet’s abyss—
By what I hear, not what I don’t. Tick of the red streetlights—
* * *
How quiet the gasp. Tick and whirr. Over then under—
Like a railroad, two red lights alternating—red—then red—
To mark the crossing. A far friend writes—cops on his block—
Broke—his jaw. A few notes of an oboe, half a block over—
* * *
Or an owl. To see darkness, find a tiny light. A far friend—
Says whisper-listing is when they don’t want you to know where—
Who bought what—the cost—the “upmarket” real estate phase—
Shadow lawns. Night sprinklers. Clover and zoysia. The toys—
* * *
I’m thinking, we know what we know by what it’s not—
The child at night, the storm roaring, storm exploding—
75 steps is 1 block. So deep through the night. Are you—
At their bedside, isn’t checking to see if her parents are still there—
* * *
The blue window. The tv. The block. Constellation of ghosts—
Gasp goes the light. The shadow—the thing she hasn’t said—
I take my last breath. Quiet, so quiet it is music. Faint star—
It comes home to me now. She’s checking to see if she is still there—
