in dreams, I greet you
by your own name,
not the one you wore on the street.
your eyes are shining and bright
and your hair styled, clothes clean
with your slow and unsure smile.
and wonder about you.
who no one's heard from in awhile.
You, who once upon a dingy garage
taught me how to knit, with
a warmth and gentleness and
kindness, somewhat uncharacteristic
you told me your mother had taught you,
with a softness in your tone,
maybe it was the memory of that love
that shone through you, then
I wonder if you're out there
Or maybe you have found rest,
alive or dead.
and say a prayer for you.