A Question of Longing – Bill Cushing

Bill Cushing

Gone already, forever?

Well, I wanted forever.


in scrapbooks and drawers–

bare bones, evidence
of failure:

ticket stubs to the opera

La Traviata; I wish

it had been Wagner, for

I could have been with you that much longer.

Others– one whole,

one torn– from the show

I saw alone.

There’s a picture in my wallet.

A friend, a woman, told me

that being there

is “really making it.”

I don’t dare remove it.

I don’t want to see it.

I do, actually, but

looking at your image

smiling, hair

falling over shoulders,

holding the son

I never had,

won’t bring you any nearer, nor

put you any farther, and

it’s as close

as I ever got

to you.

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