While you peed onto the side yard,
I pretended to be Philippe Petit on a cement parking block.
How many years had we been doing this?
The party was winding down inside
but we still took turns at Wild Turkey.
How is your stallion? You asked.
How is your mare? I asked.
We sat in silence after that.
The dew settled at 3 a.m.
I had become sloppy at free hand circles and cart wheels.
I guessed you had too.
Your beard had grown thick as moon
which reminded me of winter solstice
years ago when we sat in your beat up caravan
with nowhere to go
talking about nothing
even then,
fabric on our elbows brushing so very slight.
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