I.
Three of the last four years,
Three of us get together for an annual dinner.
I eat the same salad, we sit at the same
Dilapidated tables until closing.
We talk about family, jobs, faith, creativity.
It’s amazing to me that such different people,
Who would not be friends by commonality,
Are friends anyway.
Even with just an annual (almost) meal,
And an occasional greeting in passing.
II.
“What did you like to do before children?”
This, after the confession that there is little time
These days for anything other than the daily grind.
And suddenly, a photo on the phone of an acrylic painting,
Done in an evening: a daughter, vibrant, beautiful.
I could have lived my whole life without seeing that.
But my life would have been the poorer.
III.
“I like your writing. The first poems felt like
You were writing for an audience. But now
It’s like you are taking your life, all those
Confused memories, and sussing out the meaning.”
This, from a friend who has been prepared to move
At any time for the last three years, and will be ready
At any time still. And yet, she will give all she can to
Her life here. Including poetic criticism of the best kind.
IV.
I know the owner of the restaurant.
We walk the walking mall and
Come across two dear friends.
We watch the buskers juggle (imperfectly).
I love you, Charlottesville.
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