July 3, 2014

Too Late

We get out early,
before the heat arrives.
It's cool when we leave,
just getting hot
when we return, 
still glad to be alive.

Some try to stay, 
the very old and infirm,
holding onto a cup
with a crooked hand.
They remember the man
who fell down last year, 
lingering for hours,
right near here.

I always said
this would never
happen to me,
unable to breathe,
trapped forever
in a windowless room,
crying out to those
who forgot
too soon.

I may need more space,
where I can rest
on my own,
always looking for those
I asked to wait;
only, of course,
if it wasn't too late.