Flight

Alone friend.

You left your shoes.

I thought we’d walk these streets-
together again.

These were our words:

baker, shoe-maker,

infuser, gardener.

At the Co-op, in Eden,

a la Cart, in the Alley we debated:

cedar and bubbles,

stuck our tongues out at roses,

stuffed our mouths with salty-wrapped mammoth turds,

jazzed in painted cemeteries—

hung with the  jobless Dude.

But then I looked up.

There were your shoes.

Alone friend, if not me,

then you.