January 15, 2011
By Anonymous

1989, Brooklyn, a greyhound bus
Chuck-clad feet clomp up
Into a historical moment
The bag lady mumbles something about
Jack Kerouac
And at a sharp turn a girl stumbles into a Walkman
Headphones rip off
But angry words are choked back
When eyes meet.
Recognition, and maybe a little fear
As pupils dialate
She apologizes to a too-loud “It’s nothing”
Awkward silence.
He compliments her volumized hair
She asks what he’s listening to
And just like that,
They’re together
Can they see twenty years ahead,
To three kids, a dog, and an unpayable mortgage?
To too much wine and a lot less love
Than the day they met?
The fights that leave their daughter crying herself to sleep, and the wrinkles that none can mistake
For laugh lines?
Neither admit what everyone knows
She wishes she sat next to the bag lady,
And he wishes he kept his headphones

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