Consider yourself warned. Because you know there’s nothing better than a prose blogger pulling out old poems from her juvenilia file and subjecting you to them. Or them to you, maybe. On Monday morning. In any case, this one’s about a girl who … oh, you’ll see. Encounter
We’ve met before, I tell her
Where she asks and I rhyme off places and times not caring if she thinks I’m keeping track of her forgetfulness.
She stands quizzical pensive stares up at the ceiling — raw beams — for far too long until I assume she’s forgotten the conversation and me
looks at me smiles says, Yes,
i remember now.