March 9, 2008

I see her all the time,
though we’ll never be on
first name terms –
her son’s was Clay.

Remember the day we found that out –
small square of table class
I hardly went to – joked that she
might call another Paint.

We poked fun at coloured tights,
were too young then
to understand
the strawberry hair.

Me and him, we’ve seen her at the gym,
hair curled up and plastered back.
Seen her watching the same film,
white light –

sanding features like a print.
He says he thinks
that we must move in similar circles,
counts the sense it makes

our paths should cross.
The other week I taught
a session in her school.
Recalled that evening in the library –

what she told my mother.


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