We floated on rafts, drinking beers
at our apartment complex pool;
quiet, no one around-
the few friends still in town
during summer break working
or doing something else.
He was older. I was 22.
We had a friend in common,
which was friend enough
to stare up at the fading sun
together to reveal
quiet parts of ourselves.
He had as many beers
as we could drink and
if we said too much of
anything at all, I don’t recall.
But I remember floating-
the borrowed blow ups
colliding to create little ripples
of placentic calm.
When I was 42, he was still
older, I saw him on the street
of a leafy, sun dappled block.
We went to lunch in an empty
cafe- he ordered wine.
I was on summer vacation-
enjoying each day as it came.
He was writing jokes.
What if I were God? he wondered,
not anticipating an answer.
God could be a woman or
Jewish. Wasn’t Jesus Jewish,
I asked him. Yes. So God
being something else would
be funny, don’t you think?
The bottle emptied-
he ordered another.
He’s 65 now. I’m still younger.
He lies sunken into the bed
connected to machines
that register any sign of life.
I tell him the story of the rafts
stroking his yellowed forehead.
He tries to respond to the memory-
a whisper. I hear God in his breath.
I hold tight to his hand, kiss it,
and we float.