Pete was his name. Sitting in the next booth down,
he'd noticed I was writing. 'Are you writing a book? '
he asked, eyes big behind his glasses.
'I'm writing a poem! ' I exclaimed. 'Want to hear it? '
He nodded. I went over and read him my description
of the diner we sat in—of, I hoped, all diners.
He smiled. 'I envy that you can do that, ' he said.
'I've been practicing decades, ' I told him. 'What do you do? '
'I'm an engineer, ' he said. I can build an engine,
but I have trouble writing even a simple letter.'
'Well, I can't build a thing, except with words.'
His take-out order came. 'I have to get going.
There's not enough time in a life to do all you want, '
he said as he gathered the bags into his arms.
'Maybe we reincarnate, ' I—his opposite—ventured.
'Come back here till we've really done it all.
A friend of mine once heard a voice in a dream:
You've got to keep changing like the moon until you're full.'
'I eat here often. Let's talk again! ' said Pete,
and went out the door. I thought, 'Another poem.'
Max Reif
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/opposites-2/
