Deposed

The morning dishes are stacked neatly on the table,
"Toast and jam and eggs and bacon!" you say,
handing me a plate you exclaim, "Breakfast!"
and forget why you came.

We find two seats by the open window,
away from the searching looks nearby,
we pick up our forks and glasses of juice
and speak politely of the color of the sky.

You tell me stories of your early curacy,
your face now lined with years of episcopacy,
and then you ask me of Robin, "where is he,
who walked miles through Belfast streets to see me, where is he?"

"Remember me to him," you say,
as I cast my eyes through the window glare,
the fork still in my hand,
marmalade in the air.

"He's not here," I say directly.
He is gone, don't you know?
He is gone with the others and forsaken,
"the letter the bishop wrote says so."

Searching looks produce the bishop
who sweeps you to the corner,
the one who wrote that letter;
the sky has lost its color.

M.Ailes
May 9, 2008