poets meeting

you, reeking of some smoke 

I am too naive to be able to identify

when you say you write poetry

I know I can't ignore you anymore

and it grates wrong when we all sit silent

and you go back to the door

I'm relieved when someone has a gift card for food

and you are persuaded to take it

you scrawl on the booklet of poetry

before you hand it over

and then ask if you can recite another

and as I am leaving, one more

and it catches me, turns me back

"the shadowlands"

because life is offered

and you seem to want it

but you fade away, 

trapped in your mists of shadow