I was holding the door for
a grey-haired matron
who glanced up at me
as she passed.
She did a double-take
and I saw the look
an ex-student gives:
the lights go on.
Now we were caught
teetering in the moment:
I don’t remember names;
nor did she I gather.
How are you?
Still teaching?
Still studying?
I should ask
—or not.
As I let go of the door and
engaged in the predictable
banter about life
in the intervening years
I read the subtext:
we are both climbing
the same ladder;
but once, I gave her a boost.
The voice of the poet
riverwriter reads: