Déjà Vu Poem by David Earnhardt

He thinks he knows you, this stranger,
hand
already outstretched,
approaching,
hardened reproving smile.

Do you disappoint him
or pretend he's right,
that you've been too busy
to call or e-mail, save him

with the intentional insult,
displacing the accidental one
he insists on, then,

wanting to forget the whole thing
and escape, mindlessly
and briefly shake his hand?

Or do you simply
crush his hopes with the truth?

Sometimes guilt seems inescapable.