The only poem he ever wrote

It is nearly 3AM and like normal I can't sleep. Today I was thinking about a reading I participated in when I was 17, at The Argentine Bean. It had something to do with the Scholastic Writing Awards. There was a man there drinking coffee with his wife. He was probably about 60 or so. he broke down during the reading and told us about the only poem he ever wrote. He had been working doing something somewhere in Michigan. He had a really kind, considerate secretary. It was all of the little things that made her special and on her last day of work he made her a card. On the inside he wrote a small Hallmark-esque poem about the people who come into our lives for a brief amount of time and make that little difference. He never saw her again. And that was the only poem he ever wrote. I wish I remembered the story better. Maybe I have it written down somewhere. I hope I do. I like to make note of all of the insignificant strangers who I remember forever. Like the woman at the gas station outside of Indianapolis who told me, "You are never lost, only misdirected." or the people I observe on buses and trains in Chicago. Or the transvestite Chris and I encountered on a photo-safari on a rainy day in Cincinnati. We gave that man at Argentine Bean a copy of The Beechwood Bohemian. Maybe it is the only literary magazine he will ever own.