Michael and Eric

Now that we have worked Love out of our System.

Now that I have scalded my bum washing off the grease.

Now that I have dressed in jeans, undressed, and dressed again, more satisfied with my drab, easy access camouflage pants.

Now that you’ve given up lying in bed, trying to sleep, and joined me on the couch, where I lazily muse about ingenious ways to murder you for sleeping around, for stealing my socks, for having a small goatee like Christ, and long dirty blond hair that might be twisted into an excellent noose.

Now that I’ve smoked my last cigarette.

Now that I have tossed the remote aside, leaned over and kissed your naked knee and said, “The weather is nice. Let’s get the Hell out of here.”

Now that we’ve crossed Broadway, Amsterdam, and Columbus, unmindful of the signals or the volume of traffic heading toward the River,

We find that it is raining nothing but sunshine in Central Park, and has been, since lunch.

We find that Nobody is waving who isn’t a blade of grass, and Nobody is drowning who isn’t some kind of bottom-feeding carp.

We hear a twig snap like a celery stalk fresh from the crisper.

I notice that you have finished your joint and have tucked the remains into an Altoid tin, and found a low out cropping of granite in Manhattan on which to perch and survey the glories of Creation.

This is where I sneak up behind you and ping you with a piece of Reality that I pocketed on the Bridle Path, unbeknownst to you.

This is where squirrels with nuts in their hands look up in astonishment at the rocks as a war of pebbles erupts between two boys and Nobody gets seriously hurt.