Seeing a Friend To the Door: For Jon Rowland

Seeing a Friend To the Door:
For Jon Rowland

We walk past two boilers, then toward the door
I ask:
"Where will you go when you leave here?"
Out into the night --
alone to your home
where you always go
alone.

Earlier, we spoke of death
and ignorance
how man is chained to his fears
blindness coiled around the absolute --

You once wrote:
"We are all but mortal losers here,"
and I shake your hand,
I thanking you for the visit,
you thanking me for the tea.

I close the door behind you
as you carry away the warmth of my apartment:
in your hand a faint memory of a handshake,
in your mind a glimpse of something more than life,
in your heart a confused conception of self,
in your shoes the feet that carry you
off into the sifting, falling snow.

Where will you go when you leave here,
out into the night?
The grim premonition cloaked in snow,
on your briefcase at the bus stop,
on the doorstep to your home,
on your memories of our discussion --

Where will you go when you leave here, Jon,
into the daylight?
The dawning of ourselves,
the rising of our spirits,
the chance for absolution
with the opportunity to err, again --

Wherever you may go now, Jon,
leave your tracks deep in the frozen earth
so that I may follow
your bewildered exit.

Randy Hurst