so he asked "if of what i write"
i said barely, he said "why"
it is better than crying, i respond
"so you do write,"
yes, but barely comprehensible idiomatic secular works
"and what does that mean"
i do not know - i respond
he blinks, and steps away, returns and ask me my name
i tell him we have already met - thrice before - the older
lady before me smiles and reminds him he has already
met me - "she read sporadically - mostly about dead fathers
and such" - i smile, thank her for remembering me - she sighs
"i remember my father" she whispers as she continues to
organize her black official binder of poems: so he continues
"one more time, tell me one more time, i will remember for next time."
i make one up - it does not matter - he won't
