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.