for the Librarian (or, moonless nights bring me low)

I guess we didn’t have legs. I don’t know how you are – if you’re well, with someone, not well, alone, happy, busy, angry, indifferent or living in a yurt. I wish I knew how you are.

I met someone the other day. We only had one conversation but he reminded me of you. He even looked a little like you – tall, bearded, broad. He recognized the Billy Collins line ‘pages with tiny sentences.’ He named bands that flew right over my head. Talking with him felt familiar. That kind of recognition happened only once before. Reflected in you I saw a friend from my past, a friend I should have held closer. In this one’s conversation, you’re the shadow in the mirror.

This is guilt: when a person makes a mistake that goes unacknowledged, that person is doomed to repeat it, to keep living it, until she gets it right or, at least admits her mistake. Here is my guilty admission: my legs gave out and I never told you. I couldn’t go the distance. I broke my word.

I still wish I knew how you are. Selfish, I know. But in that I'm consistent.