I've been thinking about you
since I haven't seen you in
weeks, now months.
At the intersection, as I wait for
the light to turn from red to green;
the streets seem empty without
you rolling your cart around. I often
wonder what you kept in that case of yours.
I used to see you at the cafe, smoking your
cigarettes, smoke rising above you.
If I had to guess, I would say you were in
your seventies and I would only hope to
age as you have–you had a certain spark in
how you walked with purpose, slightly
stooped, not letting anything stop you.
I used to see you walking and walking, walking
everywhere and I'd pass you on the street,
and so many times when you were sitting at
the cafe puffing on your cigarette, I wanted so much
to stop and say hello, sit down, have a conversation.
You see, I saw something of myself in you, rolling
along–alone–alone in a way that makes being alone
lovely–like a single flower on its stem.