Two men sit together in the unfortunate
chill of a late April afternoon;
they’re waiting for a bus; one younger,
the other older, and they talk
like they may be grown son and father,
listening while the other speaks,
no humoring or distractions of strangers,
the older man holds an apple,
it has just one bite taken out of its flesh
and it’s been a while, because
the white of the apple is brown from sugar
and air and something more important;
he’s gesturing with it, explaining with it,
as he turns his hand up to heaven
in a plea, he wants to be understood,
the younger wants to understand;
there’s no sign of shame though it looks
like he’s being scolded and upbraided
but about things that aren’t his fault,
he’s listening to hear every word said
because they’re for him alone,
as if nothing matters more, as if
the words are air for his choking lungs,
as if he’s been waiting for this a lifetime,
as if he is a debtor being forgiven,
and the older man stops at his end,
takes a bite of the apple, and the bus
arrives; when it pulls away it leaves
the younger man sitting on the bench,
alone, looking down at his hand,
holding the apple with two bites taken.
James Callahan 