There is a boy who brings your groceries.
It is a late afternoon in November
or a little after lunch in the spring.
Either your friend will meet him at the door
or you yourself will sign the bill
and give him a tip. And he will not think
he will remember as he walks down the stairs.
And maybe now you are dead and he is grown
and feels old as he crosses the river
between work and home. There, perhaps,
you will catch him look past his grocery bag
at you licking the glue on an envelope to be mailed,
closing it firmly between your fingers and thumbs.