The Man Who Never Was

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and Tim O'Brien
2004

He tied on a compress and told me to ease back.
In a way I already knew what was coming,
like staring into a black crystal ball, or being
inside a book nobody’s reading.
Way too real!

I kept waiting for the pain to hit, but
I didn’t feel much. A throb, that’s all.
Back then it felt like a miracle--
a pinprick of absolute lasting light--
a dreamy edge of impossibility to it.

We looked at each other, both of us
trying to pretend it was nothing special.
He shrugged and gave me a stare that lasted all day.
A secret smile, as if to warn me about something.
That’s the last thing I’ll ever see, I thought,
wishing I could do things I couldn’t do.

I heard cartoon music and figured my war was over.
Happy trails, he said and almost hugged me.
By then I was gone with the pain.

You’ll get used to it, they told me.
He’s the man who never was.

But then they don’t understand history.
They don’t understand that in the dark,
where things get soft,
the dead sometimes smile
and sit up and
return to the world.

And the smile
never goes away . . .