when people come into
the hospital room,
their eyes roam
from window to TV to door,
sliding over me in the bed;

but not you . . .

you plop yourself in the chair,
take your knitting out of the bag,
look me in the eyes and ask,
"so, how is it going?"

i run into casual friends
at the mall
and immediately i can see
the gears engage,
the forehead wrinkle,
the tongue stammer,
'hi, uh, uh,
(what's her name? c'mon -
it's right on the tip of my brain)
how are you doing?
wow, look at the time!
gotta run...talk to you later.'

but not you . . .

i hear your excited shout
as you run to catch me,
'hey, Beloved!
gosh, you look great!!!
got time for a cup of coffee?
i would love to catch up
on what's been happening with you.'

my dad comes to my recitals:
but he's always looking at his watch,
jiggling his knee,
ducking out into the hallway
to take a cell call;

but not you . . .

you come up and say hello
to my teacher,
you pay rapt attention to my friends,
and when i go to the piano,
you lean forward in your seat,
hold your breath,
and you listen as if there
was no one else in the world.

you really, really want to be here -
with me!

Amazing!
Alleluia!

Amen.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman