His Call Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

His call

My friend called last night,
His call opened his files,
Went to the oldest ones,
Since nineteen sixty-nine.

Took courses and flights,
We had fun in Laredo, Texas.

I was in my late teens,
We enjoyed everything,
From girls to dancing,
To trips and camping.

Each finished with his wing,
Were parted by our fields,
And passed us many years.

Now we, two refugees,
Share our old memories!

His past is a rich one,
White, Russian by blood,
Born and raised in Iran,
Kept his eyes and skin.

Simple is how he lives,
Though aware, unaware,
Of his past, the details,
Of father's migrations!

Two old men live here,
In the land of foreigners,
For me first, his, second.

He called me to tell me:
"I am mourning silently."

He lost his brother,
In Iran, far away,
Unable to go there,
His pain is a killer!