Confluence, Part I

meeting of the waters
he had not been known for perfection
but with that date he had come pretty close
that first date
a tiny bouquet of flowers
homegrown, simple
tied with a simple string
held in a tiny bottle
a hand drawn map tracing their itinerary
a film
a movie would not do
foreign, french, subtitles
he had forgotten now where they had dined
it was good to forget some things at least
it had all ended
at the meeting of the waters
by union station
he had remembered his mother talking of it
fountains, figures, flowing water
and it had been
the perfect endpoint
near where the old lines had all ended
at the junction of trains and lives
this symbol of the wedding of waters
two figures, male, female
with attendant nymphs and sprites
forever reaching across a span
the waters mixing at their feet
the mists blessing their naked bodies
and they too had stood
on the lip of the fountain
facing each other across the span
of shy distance
debating whether to take the plunge
into its waters
they never did
but he always remembered themselves there
smiling, hair wet, eager
lacking only the nerve to kiss