You Took the Last Bus Home

The first time I remember seeing you
was when you fell off the scaffolding
and into the wet cement below.
You left quite an impression.
Later we met at Literary Sculpture class,
where we would fashion the great writers
out of wicker. Me: Joyce. You: Twain.
You really made your mark.
We only ever kissed once
but I recall that fateful bluster of a day
as if it were yesterday.
I was blown away.