Ruth Ellen Kocher


He Dreams Of Falling

At the table in patio seating,
a young man starched into my evening
in waiter black and white--
he's probably named John, Tom,
something less spectacular than the busboy
named Ari at the table beside me.
He is a boy I've seen and I hide that from him,
a silence he doesn't understand as he turns away
not remembering that a week ago while waiting for a bus

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