Minister at Kokee Lodge

by Arthur Mampel

I wait here on a dying man;
The kitchen lady understands.
She smiles and pours into a cup,
Her downward eyes will not look up.
The ringing phone has turned her head,
As if to ask me if he's dead?
I move my face with wrinkled mouth,
That he has not as yet Gown south.
Her face breaks into gentle white,
As one acquainted with the light;
As if the falling of her hair
Is calling down to that despair.
She who serves me seems to know
That after, when the spirit goes,
The night that holds, will also break;
Death is a pause, an empty crate.
The dead take leave for just awhile,
As if their body's out of style.

Arthur Mampel in Seattle and is Pietisten's poet laureate.

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