Across the Street from the Station
You were the one I passed every day
across the street from the station
and never spoke to. You were the one
my thoughts left last when falling asleep
at night and first to rush to when I awoke.
You were the one I addressed my poems to,
the clumsy lines of a youth spilling out
on a page and quickly thrown away.
I could never think of what to say.
Five days a week for three months
my life centered on the precious seconds
it took to pass you in the street. Then one day
you were gone. I never saw you again.
It's silly that sometimes I still think of you
and can't even give you a name.
You will never know that I have carried
your memory through the tangled scribblings
of my life and arrived here with your lovely face
unchanged, mine, furrowed and gray,
an old man, a lifetime late but now
with something to say.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2022
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