Pete was his name. Sitting in the next booth down, <br />he'd noticed I was writing. 'Are you writing a <i>book</i>? ' <br />he asked, eyes big behind his glasses. <br />'I'm writing a <i>poem</i>! ' I exclaimed. 'Want to hear it? ' <br /> <br />He nodded. I went over and read him my description <br />of the diner we sat in—of, I hoped, <i>all</i> diners. <br />He smiled. 'I envy that you can do that, ' he said. <br />'I've been practicing decades, ' I told him. 'What do <i>you</i> do? ' <br /> <br />'I'm an engineer, ' he said. I can build an engine, <br />but I have trouble writing even a simple letter.' <br />'Well, I can't build a thing, except with words.' <br /> <br />His take-out order came. 'I have to get going. <br />There's not enough time in a life to do all you want, ' <br />he said as he gathered the bags into his arms. <br /> <br />'Maybe we <i>reincarnate</i>, ' I—his opposite—ventured. <br />'Come back here till we've really done it all. <br />A friend of mine once heard a voice in a dream: <br /><i>You've got to keep changing like the moon until you're full.</i>' <br /> <br />'I eat here often. Let's talk again! ' said Pete, <br />and went out the door. I thought, 'Another poem.'<br /><br />Max Reif<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/opposites-2/
