Hadn’t seen him in years

and here he was waiting for the light

at Howe and Hastings going west.

Shook his hand, found it sweaty

partly because of the hot day,

we never had such a hot July in years,

partly because he was stressed running

to his lawyer to sign the best deal of the century

words I had so often heard

back then when I too was in the gutter and

partly because of the excessive

layer of fat all over his body:

life had taken its revenge on him

in such a strange and just way.

He asked what was up with me.

I simply said I wrote poetry.

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief

face took a smirk : dreamer

he said  and turned away,

light had just turned green.

I smiled the way you do when you see

sparrows hopping under the tables

of the plaza and I looked at my friend

the truly ignorant, who unknowingly

had described me in the most beautiful way.