This fixture you forgot
on your back patio.

You say you are confused–
how did that turn on? It has

been months since I last visited.
I say the light is a metaphor

for our friendship. Big plants
sit in chairs in your brown-fenced

garden. Don’t know how close
to be anymore. Never get too close.

A tomato vine peeks from a planter
above you. Gardening’s a hobby,

inching toward the thirty you fear.
An August birthday during the lost

summer and you toss a squeaky
blue ball in my general direction,

more wildly as the night goes on,
and Lola retrieves it every time.

You say she slept upstairs with
you for the first time. We joke

she didn’t fall immediately, that you
had to tell her to turn the television

off, stamp her cigarette out. With our masks,
I only see your eyes smile. I hope you notice

mine. It is dark, as it has been for months,
and we try to stay illuminated, despite

these killer particles suspended
somewhere in the talk between us.

(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Summer 2023)