The Last Time I Cried Unexpectedly
by W. Wayne Lin

Every time I called you,
you said you are in a park.
It’s the only place in your dictionary,
other than a tiny room you rented
from the same owner for twenty years.

There must be a place in the park,
a bench you usually sat on.
And I knew there was only you.
You never lied to me.
I never heard any other voices.

I wished you could find someone to talk with.
You lost your first wife, then the second.
After that, no more pitch in your voice.

Sometimes, I wished you knew how to lie a little,
pretend a bit,
and spend some pennies to buy a drink or two.
Yet, you talked soberly,
as though you had to choose every word you spoke.
And you’re quite sure any question you asked,
every answer you received,
only embitter your pain.

Christmas, New Year, never excited you.
If any, they dimmed your light further
as you looked around and saw others’ lights.
So brilliant and it only exposed and deepened
the darkness of your shadow.



 

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