166

We couldn’t speak when I was born
a hundred a thousand years ago,
the whimpering body I started from
and I can’t speak to you now

Somewhere between there were talks in living rooms
from which I only remember a sentence or two
and always the smell of buttered toast and old furniture

If we ever meet again it’ll be
in a place without corners or colors
or cars

You’ll look the way I remember you-
in your khaki pants,
graying hair and lines around your eyes,
a pen in your shirt pocket

I’ll have had two lovers
who maybe you’d have liked,
the night I got lost,
the house with arched doorways
in the city I found
all sinking in my eyes

But you’ll hug me like you would
and say you miss my birthday cards-

And then I’m back on the sidewalk
waiting for the light to turn green
and someone turns left into a gas station.