now just two people
who cameo each other’s lives.
Little in common between
the two of us these days.
You are still the artist,
ever drawing the pictures
from the webbing in your mind.
You teach now and sell work on line,
occasionally making a charitable donation
to those victimized by mother nature’s glance.
I am still a writer
and I still scrawl poetry
on bath walls and alley ways.
People have never paid for my verse,
but that never stopped me.
I make my living listening to sad stories
behind the desk of a doctor’s office.
I am simple,
I am satisfied.
You didn’t mention her once
in the sixteen hours we spent together,
and I didn’t ask. That is not why we met
at that hotel room, halfway between my
New Mexican sky and your New Orleans night.
We fumbled, despite familiarity
and found ourselves in bed eager for
the intimacy we shared one summer four years ago,
eager for the comfort of a friend.
I awoke not to your terrible dreams,
but to you sitting up in bed,
sketching my still form.
Upon my movements,
you kissed me still and we made love again,
eager in the hours of the morning.
You awoke not to my impatient concern
but to the sound of me writing
and kissed my should blades until I slipped back
to your side.
Our time was small,
secure and entirely necessary.