Spencer Watson

Scars

Walking through the sifting Slavic snow,
I didn’t expect to meet you.
Scarred, smoking, ambivalent.
Where are you from? (In English?)
America.
And you?
Here.
Her face, blurred in the obscurity of memory and scar tissue—
fishing in her pockets for a light. 

Do you have change for a ten? I ask
noticing how the snow melted on her chapped, impermanent skin.
A generous gesture. One. Two. Three.
No, no. Smoke.
I think I’ll have one more, thanks.

Only at this moment, Here.
I laughed at myself and her—us?
Imperfect strangers
thrown together by a torn dollar bill.
Past the phone booth, past the post office,
weaving through the well suited traffic,
no longer there.