Sing
There’s a song
you used to sing.
I’ve forgotten the words
and the melody,
but I remember
the generous swell
of your lips baring
your off-key baritone, boldly
resonating the hollows
of your throat, when
you didn’t know
I was watching, wishing
I could sing along
with you.

Posture
The trainer at the gym pulls
back my rounded shoulders
and I feel the weight
of his judgment on
my poor, hunched posture,
nerd neck angled
to stare at the ground,
rather than meet another
set of eyes, back
bending under the burden
of unmet expectations,
terminating in a pelvis tilted
to brace knees for failing,
a body that’s forgotten
any other way to be.

Reunion
We meet again after
years of failed relationships
with strangers—you, now
grey, griping about knees
aching, while I’m fat
and gassy, my irritable
bowels expounded
in excruciating detail (the you
I knew would have been
amused by the flatulence).
To my relief, your laughter
is the same raucous cackle
echoing in an empty dive bar,
when we were twenty-two,
downing shots and losing
count, dancing to Fleetwood Mac
on a night still young
and endless with possibility.