Was it Frannie? Might have been.
A butterfly moment – glances shared.
I was not sure. Neither she.
A hesitation. One step. Two.
The woman passed,
Melted into the station crowd –
if it was her.
Her haloed black Afro
faded grey, pinched to a plait.
Cheek bones more prominent.
Same piercing eyes
behind thick lens’
ageing woman glasses.
A walking stick now,
kind of crotchety – suited her.
The glimpse reopened that half-forgotten –
but not forgotten – insult
that sundered us decades ago
leaving an abyss
where shared afficion for culture;
literature, film, art and modern thought,
had sustained easy friendship:
I called O.J. guilty,
she called me racist.
She must be knocking eighty now.
If our paths cross again –
and it is Frannie:
Maybe binding a near fatal wound.
© coolhermit 2020