The saddest scene on any stage wasn't what I'd thought.

It was two-thirds of the way through
lunch break today when it happened:
I was sitting on a wall with my foreman
around the corner from the jobsite chowing down
on an overpriced chicken cutlet sandwich when
a 15-passenger van full of retarded people
drove past us, and sure as shit
it was him behind the wheel.
I knew it'd transpire eventually, and was
relieved that I handled it so well
meaning I didn't fall over
burst into tears, have a seizure
and/or spontaneously combust.

"That was my father," I said nonchalantly
as I chewed my food and took a sip.
Nick smiled faintly and didn't have
a witty comeback for once, probably for the
same reason that he's been unusually
nice to me for the last two weeks
ever since I told him the story on our way back from work
in an effort to explain my pissy mood that day.
I thought to myself for a few moments
letting it sink in that it was really him
and that the first time I'd seen him in two years
was just a wild coincidence an hour away
from where we both even live, a fluke
that will never happen again.

By the time I shoved the last chunk of bread
into my mouth I had already almost forgotten;
it was the same as if any other person had driven by
a random intersection of two totally separate lives
and as unfortunate as that is
it's the way it has to be from now on, I suppose.
It did me well to come to grips with it
in such an odd way, but I can't say I was that shocked.
How else would it read
in this ridiculous script God's writing?