Friday, November 18, 2011


We usually fought with wrenches.
Our teeth are fake, our noses crooked.
We were communicators. Strong sensitive types.
Expressive. The counselor suggested
words; or at least pillows, but
he was wearing a burgundy v-neck and penny-loafers.
Strong sensitive types did not mean fairies.

The days spent in hospital gowns puking
after concussions were times to consider
the other’s point carefully. Sometimes
there would be an apology: a fifth of whiskey
or a case of beer; most times
a counterpoint would be offered:
this is how dialogue is advanced.

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