Was it or wasn't it the old poet I passed on the street today? I'm convinced it was but I wasn't so sure at the time. He was approaching with a young couple and as we passed I glanced over behind my shades. Very elegant he looked in his overcoat and cap, if a tad overdressed for the April weather. He was walking very slowly with a cane, an old man's walk. Surely it hadn't been so many years since I saw him last. The little I was lucky enough to publish was due largely to him. A block along I stopped for a moment and looked back. The old poet was peering into a shop window, his hands in his pockets, and as his young friends set off he did the same, a few steps behind them.

So Kevin and I met on the patio of the Fox and Fiddle, happy to be there despite the chill. He and his girlfriend are moving out of the neighbourhood next week. (His girlfriend was busy packing the delicate stuff, so it was just Kevin and me, knocking back the pints.) He handed me a book: "The Wanderers" by Richard Price, a novel I lent him in 1977. "I finally read it," he smiled. I opened it and a bunch of black-and-white photos fell on the table, photos of each other and friends at parties we don't remember at all.

In Thuna Herbals, row upon row of apothecary jars. Very Dickensian, very reassuring. I throw myself on the mercy of the affable Roger, who prepares a magical blend to cure my neverending chest cold: licorice root, marshmallow root, thyme, hibiscus flower, fenugreek seed, elecampame root, and peppermint leaf.

Later at home, a cup of ruby-red tea
steeps on the windowsill.