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by Michael Escoubas
I sit with him
while his wife visits the doctor.
He looks at me blankly and says,
"Who are you?"
I sit with him,
as he works his paint-worn rocker,
a man once intimate with
Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.
the highest rated professor on campus
who knew me as friend and protégé.
I treasure my
copy of The Brothers Karamazov
because of his wise
commentary in the margins.
I wrap him warm
in a fringed red shawl, wipe his nose
with a clean tissue, adjust his glasses,
and say, "Are you warm enough, Bob?"
Honorable Mention in National Federation of State Poetry Societies 2015 Competition.
Previously published in Light Comes Softly, by Michael Escoubas.