Читать книгу Kindest Regards - Ted Kooser - Страница 21

For a Friend

Late November, driving to Wichita.

A black veil of starlings

snags on a thicket and falls.

Shadows of wings skitter over

the highway, like leaves, like ashes.

You have been dead for six months;

though summer and fall

were lighter by one life,

they didn’t seem to show it.

The seasons, those steady horses,

are used to the fickle weight

of our shifting load.

I’ll guess how it was; on the road

through the wood, you stood up

in the back of the hangman’s cart,

reached a low-hanging branch,

and swung up into the green leaves

of our memories.

Old friend,

the stars were shattered windowglass

for weeks; we all were sorry.

They never found that part of you

that made you drink, that made you cruel.

You knew we loved you anyway.

Black streak across the centerline,

all highways make me think of you.