These were the things
we--strangers--shared:
the neighborhood's change,
our street, finally! repaired,
the weather's extremes,
head-lined like some scandal,
our building's roof, its water tanks
the skylights over elevator works,
the mechanic worlds we never saw
but so depended on!
as we passed daily
in lobbies, unconcerned, below
and our familiar faces meeting,
so sudden, here, and now,
like tourists, out of place,
in some foreign land,
tied by these casual threads
--like some long lost cord
to some primeval egg--
with the wave of a hand,
a nod, hardly grave,
of what had been
--neither dark nor deep,
and nothing said:
no regrets over any purse,
property, or stolen bed.
We sang no songs together
but neither did we do to the other
any kind of wrong,
though we gave no hand
and shared no pain.
At this meeting point
of pointless chance we know,
if we think, but don't,
we'll not see that face again
--maybe can and could,
but, then again,
more likely, won't.