Fran's

Fran’s

For the hundredth time over the years
I turn, and say “John.” My friend looks.
We are crossing College, on Yonge.
The name is all that needs to be said for us both
To breathe in a new appreciation for air and afternoon.
Aimless walking and air, in the afternoon.

A favorite place for John, in Toronto,
Was this place.
Or is.
Whichever.
Perhaps he still goes there for breakfast.

Both of us wonder the same, and walk.
Not talking. But farther on,
Or even before the nether curb
We again look at each other.

He is not in there today.

John is not at Fran’s. He is a decade dead.
And there are some chairs that he may have sat in
Still sitting there, as they did,
When he did.

To neither of us, does it seem right
That a chair, or a bench, should be around
And John not.
While we keep walking.
All kinds of other things to think about today.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008

John, if you’re out there, click → HERE.