To The Brown Eyed Man in the Blue Parka at the Southern Rail
Julie Trilling

You came in from the ice storm,
ordered a beer, then left soon after.
The fogged glass half full on the bar,
on top of a crumpled ten-dollar bill.

I want to know what beer you were drinking.
I want to know why you were drinking
at two in the afternoon on a snowy Tuesday.
I want to know what text message you read
when you put the drink down,
and trembling, clutched the bar rail, eyes shut tight.

I was mustering up the courage to save this poem on my laptop,
leave the high-top table in the corner, and say hello.

I will never know if it was your lover leaving,
or word that your mother died.
I will never know your name.
I will never know you.