We think we know each other. We all do.
We chat in the wind, as though all it took
was pleasantries. I noticed things, the clothes
he wore, the words he used, the careful eyes.
But now I hear that other things were true,
that the world called, and that he kept a book
when young. Again I see that no one knows
anotherís way, no matter how he tries.
Airman, actor, dancer. The man I knew
walked dogs and waited with me for the mail,
talked of the rain, the puddles on his home.
We kept inside the old, we shunned the new,
we couldnít pass because we mustnít fail.
I kept my peace, he never saw a poem.