Elegy for a Forgotten Man

By Michael Galko

It was the kind of day

that death should not visit,

should be respectful enough,

of life, to stay tucked

in the dark shadows,

of which, on this day,

there were none.

The community

of ecstatic dancers

sat in the open porch

ordering their veggie

burgers or omelettes,

sharing their experience

of the dance or the last

week. The bright sun

shone but not too hot

and a cool breeze

entered through the open

windows along with 

the commotion

on the Metro platform

outside, the ambulance

with its yellow lights

brighter than the sun,

the cluster of blue-clad

EMTs, the kneeling one

in particular, delivering

the well-intentioned violence

of chest compressions,

her face earnest and

concerned, her muscular

arms against the blue fabric 

working, working, working…

H went out to help

and C went out to watch

H, but really, what could

one do? The experts 

were there, those with

some experience at telling

death to fuck off.

But this was not their day, 

as beautiful as it was,

and you could see

their deep anger

as they called it, 

and the dead man lay 

grey on the platform

and hot in the sun.

The whole thing hit H

hard, because of his

father, and I thought

of my own father

whose hand I held

when his lungs had

finally rotted out 

to the point

of uselessness.

I thought how his 

dignity taught me 

the soft fuck off

to death, the one

that accepts, 

but does not have to 

like, each inevitable end.

Then on finishing

our so-so lunch

and paying our small bill

in the company 

of caring friends

we walked and walked

in the sun, visited

a gallery with surprising

art, and then a record store,

breathing in so deeply

that old vinyl nostalgia,

and reclined in the covered

porch of the café,

where the one lady sat

arching her perfect 

back, itself a sculpture

and a painting,

tattooed heavily with

a school of tropical fish.

Her beautiful daughter

sat coloring beside us,

examining the world.

And back out on 

the metro platform

there were now

a young couple

and their children,

dancing ecstatically,

not the studied ecstasy 

of adult dance,

but the natural one

of deathless children.

For who cannot

shuffle their feet

and swing their hips

when there is a train

arriving soon–

to take one somewhere–

wherever that place

may be?

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Michael J. Galko is a scientist and poet who lives and works in Houston, TX. He was a 2019 Pushcart Award nominee, a finalist in the 2020 Naugatuck River Review narrative poetry contest, and a finalist in the 2022 Bellevue Literary Review poetry contest. In the past year he has had poems published or accepted at Oyster River Pages, Cagibi, Eclectica, Clackamas Literary Journal, Rappahannock Review, and Cider Press Review, among other journals.