Dr.
Walcott
Eddie,
tell me, are you alone? Dr.
Walcott Eddie
I
approach and he retreats, we spar,
we
glide over the parapet down the footpath
into
the village, there are flies on the water buffalo
in
the shoals of the slow brown river,
a
young woman in the doorway of her hutch
offers
me a cup of brown, bitter tea.
do
you have friends? do you remember
who
you were before the war?
can
we bring you back
the
way you were?
No
contract between us, no boundary,
no
stipulation that he be the patient and I the healer.
His
scarred hands, a flask of light, sweet rum,
a
coffee table between us, he evades my questions,
he
centers his glass on the coaster,
he
centers his eyes on the glass,
my
binder lies open on my lap ready
to
record yet another challenged name.
St.
Marys, Johns Hopkins, diplomas on her wall,
the
Mill, her office loft on Tanners Row,
Seven
Oaks, her cottage on the water,
Tucker
Walcott, her husband in the arts,
her
sailboat, the Skipjack Melissa May,
her
dog, Genevieve, a Newfoundland,
brown
eyes in the corner as we talk,
the
good doctor Walcott, so richly endowed
with
names and places, what does she know
of
names that fade?