At 50 with more grey than blond hair
you’re hot. Haven’t gained a pound. Haven’t lost your slouch.
Haven’t lost your unwillingness to smile.
Your mom’s tomato sauce too sharp.
My brother reminded me you used to break into my loft by climbing the fire escape
and prying open a window. You’d be barefoot, in jeans, shirt off, sleeping on the futon when I got home in summer, under the covers in winter.
We shared everything, clothes, beer, cars, sunscreen.
I was honest about my girlfriend, you were honest about your boyfriend. We were so
unsophisticated. How could we not had been, meeting at 16 and 15.
The Ambien is kicking in Alex. You’re thinking of me. I hope you want to be gay again.
Looks like a couple of the kids have left home. I can make us some good money and so can you.
Craig Cotter is a poet living in California.