On the way to Mass, by chance,
I spotted you on the boulevard at a café
with your wife and her mother.
You were wearing the lovely gold cross
my father gave me when I was a boy.
After each sip of her drink,
your wife tucked her bangs behind her ears,
recrossed her china white legs.
I have given you back to her,
locked the letters in a box.
Laughing at something being said,
you raised your arm in the same gesture
as the night we met in the park,
when a woman walking a shepherd spat at us.