today i had to say goodbye to

a group of students i'd been teaching for

nearly two years

but i can still see you at

conversation practice, right?

one of them asked

maybe next semester,

i said

wanting to spare them and,

for a moment, feeling

exceptionally protective

they went on to tell me

that i was a great teacher

that i'd been important, and

they were going to 

miss me

kind words

anyone would be lucky to hear

perhaps i am lucky, and

perhaps 

this is where the poem needs to 

end

we shared an umbrella one afternoon,

and i remember with burning clarity

the patterns on the sidewalk, 

the droplets hitting the curb,

the loud drumming on the canopy -

but not why we were there

or where we were going,

which mattered not at all

if you put forth your hands

and hover them over these words

there is a warmth

does it comfort?

does it forgive?

does it matter?

i cannot answer

i can't