Now

by Greg Watson

I told you once when we were young that
we would someday meet again.
Now, the years flown past, the letters
unwritten, I am not so certain.

It is autumn. There are toothaches hidden
in this wind, there are those determined
to bring forth winter at any cost.
I am resigned to dark blonde shadows

at stoplights, lost in the roadmaps of leaves
which point in every direction at once.
But I am wearing the shirt you stitched
two separate lifetimes ago. It is old

and falling to ash, yet every button blooms
the flowers of your design. I think of this
and I am happy, to have kissed
your mouth with the force of language,

to have spoken your name at all.

***

On the way home today
xiaoshuo unexpectedly inspired me by telling me one story she read (she just narrates it in a casual way that not even I, with my keyboard (more time to think), can. so ask her if you're curious)
that keeps her cheerful and upbeat,
entertaining herself when there's no entertainment to be found (in the form of yours truly)
and it has lifted some load off me
and made me sort of determined to let her vibrancy rub off me