The concrete’s too cold, but we do it
anyway, such buds in winter. Winter
buds. Too frozen to ever bloom, us.
I remember your skin from twenty-
five years ago because I just read
a description of it in a poem. You
have such astute admirers. Let’s
not make this past tense just to
be that magician conjuring up
a non-existent past. I’m talking
philosophically, because look at
us now, all tied up in the knots
of what you always remind me
I so indelicately call our
Armageddon. Neither
of us are trophy brokers
trying to one-up the other
with praise (unless it’s
intended to smother);
we’re too truthy by
half. But don’t we
both remember
decorum? Or
is that me
doing another
no-no, making
a new boo-boo,
dishing up the
nostalgia I’ve
been preaching
so steadfastly
against at least
ever since I
began these
farce-ridden
remarks
atop this
feloniously
fake page.
