has arrived and is bending himself into the room,
refolding his legs. I knuckle his nose,
which reminds me of the arm of a chair.
He is talking low and steady,
rolling back an eye towards his chestnut brain.
Man-words are climbing his long throat.
I show him to the bathroom
and he is embarrassed. Next he is looking
through your photo album.
There are more of me, than of him.
We are crunching on polo mints together
and remembering the way your body used to move.
first published in The Rialto, © Jack Underwood 2015, used by permission of the author.