Chance Meeting

“Did you ever send her the book, after that?”
In the bus station, sitting at the food counter, on a wire stool
She was writing, wrapped in a green winter coat.
Writing neat lines across the page.
A letter?
Doubled lines up the side of the page.  Postscript
or poem.
Across the top, around the corner of the page.
Down half the side of the page, three lines.
She wrote, intent.  She put the paper in her bag.
She turned away, laughing softly to herself
or sobbing, in the way of grey-haired ladies.
She looked around at me as I stared at her back;
then she picked up her bag and left.

“Yes, we’ve stayed in touch off and on, since then.”

“No, I never sent it.  It slipped my mind.”

“No, I never sent it.  I don’t know why.”

“No, I never sent it.”