Ray was totally blind,
wheelchair-bound, eager to please,
happy for companionship.
I thought I was just a grad volunteer,
there to read, do my bit for humanity,
but Ray shared his poems and prose with me,
proud smile, craved approval for his work.
The misspellings overwhelmed,
grammar—bad on bad.
Plotless rambles. Unfree verse.
Ray talked incessantly.
He often had a cold,
snot hung from his nose,
sickened my stomach.
I could not praise.
I could not look at him.
Mumbled: 'Interesting.'
Given my literary standards,
his chronic congestion,
I just disappeared.
Ignored his calls,
cries on the machine:
Where are you?
Youth can be a bonfire
of good intentions.
Guilt decades later
embered a cold heart.
What if Ray instead had been
Renee, a red-headed beauty
who wrote stirring poems,
smile gentle as a dove?
So I fell in love,
married her, had three children
who grew up to help the world,
allowed us to see the beauty of life.
But he was Ray
and I left.
Originally published in Down In The Dirt Magazine