As I was walking away from Memorial Stadium,
watching the faces of families walking along together,
a car stopped at the intersection so that I could cross.
I turned my head and saw someone
leaning her head out of the back window,
talking into a hand held device.
I’ll say that she was a woman.
I’ll say that she was young.
I’ll say that her hair was black
and long and shiny
like the car
and her gown -
the satiny sleeve fluttering
and her hair tangling.
She said,
‘We’re headed your way,’
but I couldn’t hear her voice
or read her lips.
But it’s so easy to read people’s minds
on graduation day.
I wished her ‘good luck,’
as she rode on past me.
But the voice she heard wasn’t mine.
And it would be another older man who would later
hold her in his arms for a moment
and then let her go on.
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