by John D. Dolan

select link below to return to index


about the author: John Dolan had short fiction published a few times in the Review. He would often submit poetry as well but it was never chosen except this gem. It could so easily be saccharine and doesn't even come near it. I still don't understand why I got so little agreement from others about the real wonder that this poem is. It's also one of the only poems we published that I chose to memorize. -gcb



Other people's lives we leave
back there.
No telephones, no televisions here and our own
car parked for a week, our own problems
with us, although I do not envy the young

these days.
As if home for awhile we keep busy.
We don't drink although we do
talk too much, and where to put this and that
in somebody else's summer cabin?

Ourselves we put to bed for a nap.
Reading, we fall asleep and snore,
no longer sex objects, alas, and yet
memories of.

"A week?" they asked incredulous.
So we could have gone distracted amongst the tourists.
So we could have stayed at home with the cats.
We're here,

older than we want to be until
with eyes wide open and mouths, too,
darkness surrounds us and

"Where the fuck is the switch?"
"The light?"
"The light."

It takes awhile for we may know each other
too well.
It does take awhile. It always takes awhile
unless, of course, what you want isn't what
we think we've had all these years and will have
until one of us dies. What then?
Which is why we are here as if we were
as we were
back there,

Select cover below to return to index

The Best of