Another summer
at the Cornelia Street Café
where we sipped chilled wine
layered time
between the hors d’oeuvres
and the sidewalk art shows
enraptured by wide-eyed girls
and passing pedigreed pups

Inside the poet read
seated and trembling
scotch at one side
a New Yorker nearby

You switched seats
and became so close
I could taste your poetry
brush your knee
and feel your hand climbing mine.

I know this was real
because we were friends;
then enemies, and
now I barely recognize your
jowls and deep lines;
the bald spots and stooped posture

that are the present.