Strindberg has come over for lunch.
Naturally, we're delighted but
he looks tired and hungry
and sports a one-day beard.
I ask him what's up.

He looks at me with
pale blue eyes
shrugs his shoulders -
"Nothing," he whispers
"Nothing much."

I try to cheer him up and
set him down at the table
to a smorgasbord feast:
crayfish, salad, pickled herring
topped off with a bottle of aquavit.

his eyes light up the room
he licks his lips and loosens his tie
and points to his friend, Ibsen,
his nose pressed to the window
still in the snow, waiting outside.