“We’ve met before.”

We have?

Perspiration’s hotbed,
handfuls of hay
not at all synonymous
with the feathers
we’ve plucked
from pleading pillows
in three-star hotels.

He hands me his breakfast tray.
in 2008,
we had our scares.
first love called, eleven at night.
the economy’s crashing,
let’s flee to Cuba.

A burned English muffin
was sweeter at the time,
and I nodded my head
so he returned to the line.

“I’ll get you more.”

No, really, you don’t.

No dialect of love’s
understood in full,
and shivering, hungry,
I took another bite.

Shook his hand,
made a friend.

New Zealand,

Baby, give me a moment.
a moment to set it aside.


7 thoughts on “boys

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