Times

STEPHEN BERG

TIMES

No one is here today, the streets

fill with rain, drops echo in long puddles

near the walls. I am talking to you again

but you don't hear.

In my childhood there's a room

where I sit in bed listening to the radio, un-

raveling the edge of a blanket with my lips. The blue

twilight darkness, heavy and soft as wool, trains

jumbled in a box, a tin

horse galloping forever,

then sleep-I think about this often.

Like now

without anyone. Tell me what your life is like, call.

Sometimes I dial your number in a rich Jersey town

and can't speak. I know what to say,

but there are

times when I'm sure I can

cross the street and go up and find you

sprawled on the floor studying, playing records,

smiling because I'm there. There are times,

and we grow distant over the years, and live

somebody's life, ask nothing, and live.