From the Warehouse

We stand, side by side,
in rectangular boxes of thick green glass,
peering closely at each other.
Our mouths open and shut;
words swallowed by transparent barriers
built over the years.
Like Snow White, we are encased,
awaiting the kiss.

His life is a warehouse of compartments.
No congress between them.
In one compartment is the source
of today’s anguish.
Five years of business problems
teetering on flimsy laths.
We do not talk much of this storm gathering.
He does not like to.
It means seepage from that carton
marked My Work.
And why should he risk contamination,
when each forced revelation brings
news worse than before?

In my bell jar, the air grows tight.
I long for the strength of knowing.
I can build from reality.
But I cannot press from him
more public pain.  Not even for me
can he let down the barriers.
Not for solutions.
Not for compassion.
Not even to build love.