We were walking down a Westport street
one summer night
after seeing band.
Someone had asked me to dance
and, not paying any attention to the man’s face,
I’d demurred.
In your penchant to reinforce the temporariness of
our arrangement, you suggested we walk to another club and come back for the car.

How far we got down the street
or what we talked about,
I can’t remember.
Behind us, headlights and the impossible moment of
thinking,
no, that can’t be

The moment after impact
everything – police cars and lights – was in my view,
but nothing – including the stranger who leaned down solicitously and stole my purse – was in my focus.

I remember you standing over me,
your hand on my shoulder,
steadying yourself
as much as reminding me
I was ok as you stroked my hair.

Later, after our respective healing times,
we made it part of our banter.
We weren’t a couple; we were survivors of the flesh.
It was easier to see how ill-equipped we were to commit to a future
neither of us saw the other belonging.

I think of that night
but not often.