I catch up with you
In this boom time of the manic
Depressive memoir, (a spree
Of snakebite kits) the same book
You were writing when I knew you,
Before you stopped. But I know you
Will, at least, start one again
And we will have at least one more
Long conversation like the last—
You wishing for one more chance
To come back, go back to back then
And me actually picking up a tennis racket
Swinging backhands to bat you away,
You coming through the space
In the catgut anyway.
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