I had a dream
that an old friend
who smoked cigars,
lifted weights,
taught English
at an obscure college,
and wrote poems
on yellow legal pads
was living in
New Hyde Park,
Long Island,
working in produce
at the A&P and,
at nights,
running a food concession
at Iona College,
in Westchester.
He’d had three kids,
one just born,
with a woman
I’d never met and
he’d never married.
He answered my questions
directly,
without apology
or explanation.
He never took off
a black raincoat,
and did not respond
when I said
we must get together
again,
sometime.
I knew then that
he still was writing poems
on yellow legal pads
that no one
had ever read.
5/7/97