You were the cool
but approachable
dark-haired biker gal
at my now-ex-girlfriend's
birthday dinner
that July night
of moderate heat
at Christopher's
in Porter Square.

Nursing a ginger ale,
you asked me
That Dreaded Question.
"So! What do you do?"

Intuitively, I knew
you were a woman of
all-embracing sympathy
and of wide understanding.

So I answered:
"I'm a poet
and a curmudgeon
and a sluggard."

Your smile, dear soul,
was warmer than a kiss.
You raised your glass:

"Dude! More power to you!"