John, Passing

Steve, you say your name is, from Columbus, somewhere, Going through New York on your way to somewhere else. Oh New York is my home, I offer, smiling secretly

At the handsome aspirant who is really no longer

An aspirant but-John, passing-in one of his legion disguises.

Only last week you were Tim from Maine's lumbering woods. Ending your vacation days here-Steve, you say.

Oh, yes. You've chosen that temporary name, John, passing.

But before we start, and you leave, admiring the neatness of my petite [bedroom, Let me make another plea as I did when you, John, passing, were here [as Milo, A hundred Bobs, Franks, Georges, Bills and one Sylvester ago.

Stay.

John, passing.

Stay.

So I may stop days and weeks searching you,

Finding the many different names you answer to and faces you wear. So we can weld an iron home from this swirling world

And fend from reality's cruel sunlight

So loneliness' deep ulcers can have end and justification in you

And what's left of this savagely confused pattern can bring a happier

Pause.

You needn't answer.

I'm sorry.

I've embarrassed you.

Steve you say your name is.

We'd better get on before you're late for your train.

Vincent Synge

[existence.

11