Linda C. Angér

He’s the boy
I would have loved
when love was still
within my reach.

Shoulder-length dark hair
in waves, not curls,
long sideburns,
clean-shaven,

Slender fingers meant
for guitar strings, piano keys,
or midnight massage,
faded jeans
and wide-set eyes.

He looks up and
past me,
beyond my silver hair and
crow’s feet;
smiles at the girl behind me.

He looks up and
past me
while a chorus
of my dark-eyed ghosts
share his table,
still within my reach.