2.

We stayed like this a long time,

stranded, I thought to myself,

like ships paralyzed by bad weather.

My neighbor had withdrawn into himself.

Something, I felt, existed between us,

nothing so final as a baby,

but real nevertheless—

Meanwhile, no one spoke.

No one rushed to get help

or knelt beside the prone woman.

The sun was going down; long shadows of the elms

spread like dark lakes over the grass.

Finally my neighbor raised his head.

Clearly, he said, someone must finish this story

which was, I believe, to have been

a love story such as silly women tell, meaning

very long, filled with tangents and distractions

meant to disguise the fundamental

tedium of its simplicities. But as, he said,

we have changed riders, we may as well change

horses at the same time. Now that the tale is mine,

I prefer that it be a meditation on existence.

The room grew very still.

I know what you think, he said; we all despise

stories that seem dry and interminable, but mine

will be a true love story,

if by love we mean the way we loved when we were young,

as though there were no time at all.