I’m sitting in Washington Square Park, so
late at night no one stirs. Suddenly there
to my right, she moves to me, spirit flow
in her familiar white. I only stare
at first, then say, “I thought you never leave
Amherst.” She gazes, speaks in near whisper,
“You left Little Rock. You couldn’t conceive
coming here for years. But you hold it dear.”
“Yes, I do. I chased the Muse north. And you?”
“I came to see you,” she smiles. “That one day
you toured my exhibit, studied thin loops
of my cursive. Wrote a poem to say
you loved me.” Her eyes glow. “We’ve both come far,”
I sigh. She sits by me. We bless the stars.
Roger Armbrust
June 16, 2020
