Glancing across the platform
I spotted myself sitting on a bench thirty years ago
waiting for a downtown train,
fleeing some boy because because I realized I wasn’t who he thought I was,
or maybe I was,
but he was no longer interested.
Present me wanted to shout, “Get on with things. Stop fucking around.
You need a PLAN.”
But if I could’ve heard, I wouldn’t have listened.
I was too busy gathering material.