In my friend's face it's not easy to separate
what's serenity, what's despair.
What the mouth suggests the eyes correct,
and what looks like acceptance
is a kind of détente, the world allowed
to encroach only so far.
At his house, we put aside
the large questions: Is there? And if so?
replace them with simple chores.
We bring vegetables in from the garden.
We shuck corn. Is it possible
to be a good citizen without saying a word?
Both his wives thought not, wanted love
to have a language he never learned.
He'd make wine for them from dandelions.
Sundays he'd serve them breakfast in bed.
In his toolbox he was sure he had a tool
for whatever needed to be fixed.
The deed reveals the man, he says.
I don't tell him that it's behind deeds
he and I often hide.
I've got a face for noon, a face for dusk,
a fact he lets slide. Both of us think friendship
is about what needn't be said.
It seems we're a couple of halves, men
almost here, hardly there. At his house less
feels good. I always come back for more.