The Day We Meet?

I hold the door and you say
"Thanks" and
"How 'bout the rain?"
leading to small talk about the weather
like parents who no longer relate to their children.
Perhaps it happens in periodicals
where you thumb through Gastronomica,
or while browsing for bargains
on Vonnegut and Hemingway.
We might reach for the last
coffee table about bridges.
Maybe just
maybe
you catch my eye in d.i.y.
holding an artisan whiskey how-to
and a used copy of The Homesteader's Bible.
I linger in the literary R's
in case you pick up the scent
of Jitterbug Perfume.
In line for coffee
we notice we wear the same hat,
and you laugh when I say
my fashion sense is unisex.
In the end
you're probably the one
adjusting your glasses
and klomping your keyboard
with feverish intent while
I write about women
who exist exclusively
in my mind.