Stages Poem by Joe Oppenheimer

Having turned 65, I came home
from New Zealand’s winter,
banished to Washington’s muddle.

Then I dreamed so clear
as to know it true
before it happened.
My dreams aren’t like that.

I was coming home,
going to a party.
I was indeed:
a son’s wedding
in Philly.

But the dream was in the country
just now: in June.
His younger sibling
was to introduce
his beautiful partner to friends and family.

We celebrated.
Herb Friedman came from my college days.
As did Howie. They wore ties and jackets,
though we never did.
The ties were woolen, tartan and thick,
like my mother used to give me.

Bill wasn’t in the dream,
I wondered how this happened.
Did he use his heart attack to die?
He was a doctor,
he knew the symptoms, but told his wife Katherine,
“It is no matter, just a stomach upset.”
Did he want to die? But no matter,
for as I told you,
he didn’t come. Herb did.
All to celebrate Robbie.
I was so afraid I might mix them up:
the names of such good friends.
How could I? And would I
remember Sarah’s name when she arrived
in her maroon sweater?
Herb spoke; he brought a book
“Tools for Happy Wanderings.”
It was all about taking care of the elderly.

Funny, isn’t it, that he would bring such a book,
and talk about it – at such an event.
We know of happy wandering,
We don’t even taking care of anyone anymore.
Francie died - years ago – above 94.
and yet, I wondered, “Did we lock the car? ”

I left to see; we had,
but I turned on the radio
and sat a while. What for?
I don’t know. It was winter then.
Snow lightly falling.

Bonnie came with Herb and Howie
to see to where I had wandered
and to bring me home.
I wasn’t sad until I awoke,
home again from New Zealand.

The next night I didn’t sleep.
How could I?