I’d like to think we’ll settle
around the same table again,
that we’ll reach into the same
basket again for bread,
our fingers briefly touching,
and not even worry about it.
I’d like to think we’ll break
that bread and press the pieces
into the same saucer, the balsamic
and olive oil anointing our friendship.
I’d like to think that we’ll read to each other
in person again and laugh
and cry together like we used to.
That we’ll inhale the same air
into our various lungs and exhale
our joy at being together again.
But I don’t know.
I just don’t know.
Previously published in Woodland Pattern Quarterly Calendar.
