An old friend rushes by.
I speak to no reply.
His face avoids my eye.
The sudden surge of shame
in calling him by name
when he’d not do the same
is hissing-kin to hate.
Yet, if he hurried late,
couldn’t afford to wait,
his manner might be so.
If I asked, would he know?
Whatever moved him, though,
he deftly woke in me.
Faces I barely see
tie knots continually
I fumble to undo
pursuing him or you,
or pass in silence, too.