I saw you in the boy at the supermarket,
struck dumb by the likeness,
the disgruntled expression, the greasy hair
lank about his baby-fat face.

If the night hadn’t been wet,
if you had cooled it around that curve
and not ended up headfirst in a canal going 75
at nineteen years young, he could have been yours.

But as it was there was no way he could be,
just another ghost, perhaps, visiting on a bad night,
a reminder that shit is fucked up
on both sides of the tracks.

I bought my Coke and left, hand trembling,
fumbling with my change, dollar bills to get me out
to the parking lot so I could drink half a hot can
and pour the rest out, for you.