See You in the Dark: Poems

The Boy Obsessed

44 THE BOY OBSESSED Whatever became of the boy—Barry, Terry? no, Tony—who at fifteen was obsessed with death, said he stayed up half the night pondering the mystery, staring at the furniture that would outlast him. He carried on incessantly, we thought he’d go crazy, almost hoped he would, for the sheer drama. At parties he’d wave his arms and shout: Don’t you get it, all of this, all of us, will disappear, as if we never were? We shall be no more! We laughed, he had a witty way about him, Tony, debonair, he relished his obsession. On he’d rant, the couples on the couch would glance up, then resume their necking, the dancers pressed more tightly into each other’s torsos, the boys’ hands edging towards a breast, others would shrug, grab a soda from the fridge, open a bag of chips, change the record and— Death, death! he’d shout again. How can we endure each day, knowing the inevitable? His girlfriend murmured, Enough now, Tony, give it a rest. Death never rests, he’d say, laying his head in her lap. A clever boy, he wouldn’t waste his life. He must have subsided into the common way, making the most of his looks, brains, charm, and if he ever thought of his obsession, 45 dismissed it as boyish self-indulgence, till fifty years on, the suspicion grows that he had it right, way back. Winter nights he lays his head on his sleeping wife’s breast and whispers his old words . . . No more . . . as if we never were. ...