I saw him on the sidewalk — smaller now

I saw him on the sidewalk — smaller now,

or maybe I'd made him large inside my head.

He smiled. He stepped aside. A little bow

almost, of politeness. Nothing said

about the night I broke him with a fact

delivered like a blade, the room all ears,

his face collapsing while I stayed intact,

correct and righteous. That was years

ago. I nodded back. Walked past. My shoes

hit pavement and I carried it — the win,

the rotten trophy you can never refuse

because you built it from your own chagrin

dressed up as principle. He smelled like soap.

Clean shirt. He looked like someone who'd moved on.

And I walked home along the narrowing slope

of knowing I was right, and wrong, and gone

from any version of this where

I'm not the fist. The clever, landed blow.

He stepped aside for me. I took the air

he gave. I breathed it.

I should have let him know.