Seeing a Man Who Looked Like the Father I Would Never Recognize

by Amy Soricelli

I saw you the other day on the street sidled against the bad weather grim straight-faced
in your grey suit/ if you had one it would be deep filled pockets of air -
you shrugged by me, of course.
It was not you; the dead wandering around in tip-toe dances of black nightmares -
you are not here in this city -
not here firm down placed hard with cement.
We never shared the same space dimming street corner lights you were
sometimes what the shadows made;
plucked like a feather right out of your hat.
Your eyes were blinking  gold story-book promises: shady eyes under sunglasses;
smile sometimes... they said to you.
smile sometimes.
You knew the small of who we were/ the palm of your hand wrapped tight against some dead love you shared.
We were never there in black and white our birthdays slipped off the tip of your tongue.
The dead could not get out of cabs skipped by to the end of the curb/splash down on piles assembled like
puffy crowds of strangers.
I did not know you then - I would not know you now.