The Peanut-Butter Cookie 2 Poem by Morgan Michaels

-How old?
-About my age. Or a little older.
-Tell me more.
-There's not much to tell. I was standing on the curb. I didn't see him coming. Suddenly, there he was. I found myself looking into his eyes. They were gray, I think.
-And?
-He stopped. He opened the paper bag he was carrying and held it out. Obviously, I was supposed to help myself. The bag was worn and looked like it'd seen alota action, that particular morning.
-The bag of peanut-butter cookies?
-Yep, them. It wouldn't have been polite to refuse. In those days, people worried about such things, politeness, and all.
-Courtesy is the best form of coercion. Everyone wins.
-So, I reached in and took one. It was sandy blond and had hatch marks on it.
-You ate the cookie?
-Unh-unh.His fingers were filthy. But I waved the cookie around like I was delighted to have it, and wanted nothing else. It seemed the right thing to do. Then he was gone.
-What happened to him?
-How should I know. He moved on. He re-joined the parade.
Awful! Is consciousness just memory? Is reality just memory?
No. Reality is different.
-But he wormed his way into your bank of long-term memories-
-I guess.
-It's sad, you know.
-Why do you say that?
-Because he was so young and poor. He's probably not even alive. He probably died of starvation. Or, exposure. Or, a protein deficiency.
-That's morbid. He may be very very much alive- this very moment. He may have won the lottery for twenty million and have eighteen grandkids.
-You're right, I guess. I just assumed...
-Don't. That tells more about the one making the assumption than about the Truth. People always assume the worst.
-You're right, of course. Then, I heard my mother calling. Looking over my shoulder I saw the statue of Billy Penn-way up, on top of City Hall, the sun glinting off him. Then, there was my mother. Big as life. She grabbed my wrist and hustled me on. She was mad. They didn't know where I was.
-And that was that?
-And that was that.