To H.R. in the Cafe

You are a friend I cannot know well
since most of your life is inner
and we have not shared it together
 
You are a friend whose image
each diamond visit has traced
in my mind’s window space
 
In your gray, honest eyes I have seen
a lover’s, a nation’s pain –
libraries of reading footnote
the universe you contain.
 
You are not sick, pitiful, lazy, 
philosophically misaligned,
to demonstrate our condition
as one we must meet resigned.
 
You are a daily example
of a truth that we choose to ignore,
the gentle, firm fight against verdicts
inexorable, imposed long before.
 
A Promethean, sea torn remnant
chained to a foreign shore –
I marvel the months that you question
and treasure the years you endure.
 
You are a friend for my fireside
if I had a hearth and a home
and a family, when you are alone.
 
In my house night would fall softly
and any with claim on me
would love you and respect you,
and your privacy.
 
                                                                        (1960s)