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i saw you in front of a coffee
shop at the corner of washington
and 4th. you were drinking grape
juice.  i told you that your eyes
were deep as water.

[two weeks passed]

you were getting on the subway
as i got off.  i passed you and you
reached out your hand, touched
my cheek, and traced the scar
running partner to my nose,
memoir of a softball game.

[two weeks passed]

i stopped you in the street and
asked if you had been to rome.
you said no, but that you had
seen my rubber rainboots in a
dream, and that that would do
for now.

[two weeks passed]

i saw you across an intersection,
and a river of busy metal kept
us apart, but we toasted our
drinks across asphalt and i drank
to you.  i wondered who you
drank to.

[two weeks passed]

we rushed for the same taxi.  you
let me have it and asked if i was
busy.  as i pulled away i yelled
back that i had a hot date with
corporate machine and materialistic
america.  a hooker on the corner
laughed until she coughed, and
i think you smiled.

[two weeks passed]

you were washing your coats
at a laundromat.  i stripped off
my socks, a fresh pair, and tossed
them into the metal gums of a
washer.  i sat beside you.  you told
me that as a child, you were scared
of kangaroos, that you wanted to
go hang gliding, that you felt as
though the world could fit in your
pocket and that i smelled like oranges
and ancient air and that i was
Something Else.  we kissed.  my
socks came out warm.

Two weeks have passed and I haven’t seen you.
Somehow, I know I won’t.
We never really said anything to each other,
But we found time in between moments to say everything.
I think that is enough.
I think I’ll be all right.