One assignment at the poetry workshop led by Joan Murray and held at the Still Point Retreat Center was to write a poem that dealt with fear.
An old story
Another noiseless night,
and, again, the ambulance
waits below her window,
its strobe striping red
through the slats
of her closed blinds.
She listens for whispers
from the long hallway,
some hint of who it is
this time —
maybe the frowning one
who drifts, slow in motion,
beside her grizzled
three-legged dog;
maybe that sweet sad man
who wheels himself each day at three
into the patch of sun at the front door;
or maybe someone still
faceless and frightened
keeping silent vigil
until three a.m.
(copyright EF 2003)