Jim had been operated on,
and was what they, with optimism,
call in recovery, back on the ward,
had telephone and operas of soap,
suspended from the ceiling.He snored,
most of the day and slurred his speech
all other times. I called him yesterday,
they would, it seemed release him,
end of week for sure, weather permitting,
another specialist would see him in four weeks.
To do what this one was too chicken to reveal.
Tonight I called him, to say hello and howdydoo,
an ancient voice devoid of substance said Hello,
so could old Jim have made the trip down to the,
what-you-ma-call-it place with its own chill,
or was he home, sent there by God's good grace?
I wished him well, the fellow with the whisper voice,
and heard him clearly, very lucidly express,
the inner wish that my welcome intrusion
would have an answer for him, one
he could not do without, but it was not to be.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem