Scott in the Guggenheim’s whorl

stared at a Picasso with both eyes

forward, said to me “I see the Eiffel

tower, a saxophone and some boobs

on a plate.” We laughed in the museum

and got in trouble for photographs

and got kicked out a closing time

and talked right up to the stop

where we split off from each other

in the underground undergrime

of the subway. I zoomed to Kathryn

with her foster dog who did not

love me but he loved my thigh

and dinner at a tiny restaurant

where we cried in the moment

in between dinner and dessert

when the cook in the kitchen

right behind us began slicing

tomorrow’s onions. Eyedrops

and overdue birthday presents,

hummus scooped around, wine

and wine and a whiskey, a bouquet

and a beer and asleep in Sam’s

bed with the lock fully bolted.

And so much to eat every day,

scalloped potatoes by Kath

in the sweet lowdown space

where she’s made her small home.

And Andy so tall that we hug

like a tree and a sapling. And Max

even taller, so full of face that I’ve missed

since last winter in Bushwick when

the cabs were all taken. Awe of piled

trash on every street, awe of the ease

of jokes and jingles made around a small

wooden table. Only three tiny pills

twice a day for Sam. Schiele for free

in a gallery uptown. The subway running

as if the storm never blew. Sean lives

with Scott and they’re both my true

friends. Poems and lentils and The Strand

and more whiskey. Running down 12th

like a bat outta barn. Coffee in mugs

and coffee to go. Dancing in honor

of a liver restored. And back on the bus

to my home in the country, fat to the gills

on signage, on sweetness.