I cherish the time I rang you
when I had to drop a client at
Freshwater or Florida and maybe
mumbled something about a hug.
Maybe. Maybe. Sounds like me.
You came out in a knit top that,
so unlike you, had a little hole in it
or was, maybe I don’t remember,
could it have been inside out?
It only occurs to me now, years later,
at the writing of this poem, that you,
working from home, had maybe not
been dressed for the weather, rushed
out to meet me grinning also anyways,
to trade a quick hug and three minutes
of “Hey.” And “Hey you.” and how do you do?
I hope this rings a bell with you,
or tunes up a crystal bowl singing
Freshwater, Freshwater, Freshwater you