you again

Last night I went, hoping you'd be there.

I saw your car in the parking lot, and I felt happy that I'd risked. You were charming and funny as usual--but also incredibly and simply wise.

I can't take my eyes off you; I wonder how obvious it is.

When I left, you were sending people off with a smile and a "y'all come back now, y'hear?" I took your hand, and told you quickly how much I appreciate what you say.

I can't often read people, but I read you then. Your eyebrows went up, surprised, as if what I said meant something. And maybe you weren't sure whether to believe it. But you wanted to. A whisper of hope.

As I drove away, I knew that you are the second coming of the same old thing. I should run away as fast as I can, because I can't live through another one of those. But maybe, if God is in it, it would be different? A whisper of hope.

Today at meeting again, I said hi, then studiously ignored you as you prowled the perimeter. You are like Rilke's Panzer, restless energy contained. I'd like to think I've baited the hook, and now it's your job to come and bite.

I think I see, but maybe I'm just dreaming. Oh well, I can always hope.