On the way
for Geoff Park
On the way to Mein Street, everyone
seems unnaturally well and strong.
That elegant girl, swinging her bag
as she crosses the road in front of me;
that lean school-boy, slouching by the lights,
his shirt-tail out and his face shining
with a cheeky thought. They are all
on their way somewhere, lit up
by their beautiful intent.
Purpose drives them on through
the sunny afternoon. Observe how
they glow. Admire their dance
through the traffic, certain it will wait
for them. They have no idea
why I carry Billy Collins’ poems
and a box of chocolates.
Their insouciance is a blessing.
It has not yet occurred to them
that we are all on our way
to the hospice, one way or another.