Everything turns into writing

I read you.    I get it.      Everything turns into writing.
Sat with my steaming hot coffee on a cold October day
in Bowling Green park
                                 planning to finish it
before I hit the subway. I’d crossed on the ferry
from Staten Island with Elaine and we had just
said our goodbyes.         I never did see her again
yet here she is once more in my wanting words like
some affable familiar ghost whose memory
has travelled with me all these years even though
most of the time she was never even in my mind.
In a moment’s distraction
                         I’d spilt some of the coffee
on the salt and pepper overcoat I was wearing
How strange to be haunted      by a cute face and
by certain gentle innocent words spoken over
                                  forty-five years ago

John Lyons

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