fist bump

Shirtless in the kiddy pool,
we conversed, covering
books, movies, stuff we were
writing, anything but my
discomfort at being discovered
so uncovered, unexpectedly
by someone I only see
at church. And he's in much better shape, too.

We stood shoulder to shoulder
(mine are hairy and scarred, his smooth
but mercifully not any more muscular)
glancing only occasionally at
one another, watching instead
our boys splash around, mine
with a sagging swimsuit, unconcerned
about his crack hanging out
no matter how many times he performs
that little hitch I tell him to practice.

Just as the conversation dried up
his son was grabbing at his hand
tugging him away from imminent
awkward silence. I lean down,
offer my knuckles in parting to the six-year-old,
and I'm taken aback for some reason,
when I straighten and see my friend's fist
held out to me in the same gesture, as if to say
it's cool. you're cool. we're cool.

moving like trees

You look out from the second floor window;
all the trees are moving,
bobbing, waving, looking more like
underwater plants behind glass at an aquarium
dancing in invisible currents of that thick medium
they thrive in and breathe like air, undulating,
moving like trees
letting the wind through their leaves
as another storm rolls in