We were to meet at the cafe at eleven.
You were a half-hour early.
I knew this was your habit
but did not prepare.
You said I knew you would be
on the patio.
Your pandemic concern had asked
to meet me on the patio.
You settled your bones
on the opposite chair.
In your purse you promised
answers resided for the mysteries of life.
I knew it was poetry books—
part of your dwindling collection
that once stretched four bookcases
across your living room wall.
I received my share of the dispersal
of your worldly goods
while you could enjoy the giving
of such treasures.
Seven books with post-its
and notes in the margins
in pen and pencil.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney