What is her name?
When I last saw her
it vanished beneath the ground
where we stood.

Filing past crates
of fruit and potato,
the Thursday crowd follows
sidewalk lines,
moves content towards
no center.

A boy follows her.
Her face is pale and smiling,
floats before the apple
barrels.

Linda -- mid-sentence, mid-laugh.
Even the last name
comes, and draws for me
the portrait of
a word.