Together,
twenty and I keep the kingdom in our midst at bay —
trade IDs, sponsor carnivals for the lapsed sons
of the neighborhood, make vicious feints
now and again at sealing the deal. This is the deal:
we are going to date. Not nubiles; each other. He
will bolster my credibility with the Epicureans
who challenge gravity on the college lawn. I will
park him beside village cranks in the Queen City
and teach him to separate agony from disbelief.
In the evening we will coordinate a six-act with the
Worst Night of My Life. A certified PBT operator
will deliver the epigram and keep the after-party
beverages from the littlest. I will not say I could do
better; he will not say I could have done worse.
Opening night we will compose ourselves behind
the curtain. This isn't everything. This is one thing
we do. One night only and then we dim the lights
forever. Rumors will circulate of a split, a bad fall.
Your hands have touched the hands of a murderer, he'll say
as the audience departs. Shake my hand or die,
I'll respond. Thirteen minutes later, he is devoured.