i saw him today. 

he was driving another car 

newer than the avalon 

by his side a woman i 

did not recognize. 

and then later, there she was:

i saw her on a street corner 

walking in front of the car 

on the busy road. 

he is on soup cans 

he is on the tv screen

he is in conversations

his name is one i hate to hear 

but long to 

and she is in the supermarket 

buying cans of soup

she is an extra on a show 

on our tv screen. 

she is brought up by women who will be dead soon

the pith of their conversations. 

her name is one i too hate to hear 

but yearn, long, want to 

both of them together 

they were, are here 

i see them driving by, passers by 

passengers on a train, passing by 

they were here. 

he is a barber 

a teacher 

a stone mason 

a man in a blue coat 

a man in a dusty Carhartt jacket 

a man in a tie 

a man you see everyday 

passing through 

she is an accountant 

a writer 

a society-member 

a woman in a black dress 

a woman with bare arms, clamdigger pants

a woman in a topaz necklace 

a woman you see everywhere 

a passer-through. 

yes. 

i saw them both today 

i saw my barber, my accountant 

my teacher, my writer

they drove a car they never drove before 

they did things they never did before 

they looked like new people because 

they were new people. 

my people are dead. 

yes,

i saw them both today.