How lovely to encounter a hard-
earned favorite, weave giddily through
lines with comfort, warmth, and the
occasional yet always unexpected
prickle of something like impending
sex with a stranger. Imagine when
less than a decade ago I’m (time spun
raggedly in all directions) fistfuls of
hair poring over each page, What
in the hell is he saying? Paid
in Full, where have I come,
what have I come to? 4 miles
on Tuesday, which was a
yesterday? Racquetball
with Fermin, 3 and a half
games (but he’s getting
better, damn!) and cranky?
I’m short-tempered, sure,
over my clumsiness last
Saturday night. Over
my feelings, sudden-
ly. Or just thinking
about them.
“You think
too much!” he
always says.
Oh, for a month
of holidays, some-
thing casual in the
air, a new and unfam-
iliar book of nonchalant
phantasies: correspondences
extricated from the ether (ahover
between here & there), whipped up
and whisked (in no necessary order)
into skillet-sized breakfasts.
Unequivocal. Telepathic.
Banter. Notwithstanding.
