UNION STATION
We meet one day after
a long Chicago winter
in the rush of Union Station.
She finds me as I am,
nervous at a corner table
practicing my first impression.
I shake her hand, enjoy
the way words escape me.
We discuss our travels,
how we reached this point.
I get a sense of
where she’s coming from.
Some folks chat but never meet,
she says, lamenting the
difference between profiles
and how you actually appear.
We speak of childhood,
French philosophy, Freud’s
interpretation of dreams.
She asks about my poetry.
I share theories, outline
methods, draft revisions,
wondering what she’ll
make of these lines.
c b snoad
3-21-14
