I cupped my hand, inched
you, forgotten friend,
closer. We caught
up over coffee
at one of your Star-
bucks. You offered
to pay, typical
you. “Everything’s on
the house,” you said,
“This venti cup, these
rich mahogany
chairs, those million
passing cars, a blank
check for property.”
When you left, I
closed my eyes for a
second and lost you
among the cars,
moving from one place
to another like the formal nomad
who never understood “lost.”
zachary heine (Sherman, TX, 1991)
