Al Fournier

Are we yet those two old men, broken and toothless,

sitting on a bench in pale afternoon sun, passing the Mad Dog,

swilling memories like heroin angels, their chorus of laughter

echoing our overspent youth, the things we touched

and couldn’t touch dancing on our tongues again, reprise.

Celebration of what was, lament for what will never be.

But shit, who knew we had it all back then? Two bodies

moving uncertainly through finite space, infinite possibilities.

And what were the odds? Atoms from ancient stars assembled

into Al and John, two lives intersecting at the corner

of Oakdale and Third Street, planet Earth, a long way

from eternity. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have laughed

quite so much, wouldn’t have trembled on the threshold

of touching all this magic—a world outside my room.

Kids on skateboards, adults slamming car doors,

heading for work while we pumped bicycles, escaping

into distant blue. Then it was us in that nine to five,

marriage, divorce, states between us. Kids of our own.

I remember being so high together once, standing in line

at Burger King, I thought the ceiling would split

with our laughter. And wasn’t it you who said, someday

we’ll be perverted old men, nothing left, sitting on a bench,

the codgers we make fun of now. We’ll never be alone,

I thought. We’ll always have each other to fall into.

A lifetime later, states apart, we’re getting closer

to that bench. Closer to a feeling I never could forget.

There’s nothing trivial about a friendship like ours.

Not a word or gesture wasted round the carousel

of time. Let’s set a date. How old is young enough

for one more go? Wild and toothless on the edge of eternity.

Alfred Fournier is an entomologist and community volunteer in Phoenix, Arizona. His poems have appeared in The Indianapolis Review, Third Wednesday, International Times, Hole in the Head Review and elsewhere. His poetry collection, “A Summons on the Wind” (2023) is available from Kelsay Books.