Now, these thoughts are not so young.
The last time I saw you I had my mother’s teeth;
Six thousand dollars down my throat to solve it.
You sit kindly spaced from me, a considerate foot
Between us on the bench. I wonder if you know.
Of course, I saw you in the swoop of your nose.
You haven’t looked over yet. I examine my newspaper
As though it held my secrets. You reach down and tug
At one woolen sock. My coat slips from a shoulder and
I pull it back into place. You cough. The bus doesn’t come.
As I look at you as you are now, I wonder
If you remember what I remember. The rules are like this:
You stand here and I pass the ball. I heard since then
That all our friends are gone. Out of town or dead, each.
I heard since then you married a couple times.
You who bloomed are different and not. You can tell what caterpillar
Turns into a butterfly or moth. The same hair floats
On your neck as it did back when I was taller.
A bus arrives. It’s not mine. You rise slowly and ascend the steps.
I pray a goodbye to us both as it whisks you away.