My Uber driver in bushy white beard 
says Wowza! with a memorable pitch
not heard since high school as he
conveys me skillfully, rapidly 
up and down the streets of San Francisco 
so I say “Excuse me, but did you once 
used to teach eleventh grade English 
in Montgomery County, Maryland?”
For half a minute he grimaces, shakes his head.
Awkward, he says. ‘Did you once used to.’ Wowza!

In memory I drown. Speechless. 
I’m the kid who doodled poems, stories for nobody 
and for no purpose until clean-shaven Mr. Hilton
praised, encouraged, cheered. 
Back then he was gay and couldn’t say. 
Quoted Walt Whitman in a singsongy voice. 
Sometimes he’d vow to quit teaching 
and drive a taxi around D.C. and write 
a novel about political mucketymucks.

“Did you write a novel?” I ask.
Drove taxi.
“And wrote a novel?”
Not exactly.
“You were my best teacher.”
Thank you. He grins. You just made my day.

He studies me, eyes in mirror. Who are you?
I tell him my name and say, “You inspired me.”
Inspired what?
I tell him I write poetry. 
Sorry, he says. A miserable occupation.

The ride ends and I say, “You changed my life.”
To be honest, he says, I don’t remember you.
“Thank you for discovering me.”
Nonsense. Wowza! You were always there.
He won’t accept a tip.