For Deb at 40
I dreamt we were old—
actually old, not old
like we think we are—
strolling somewhere foresty,
years beyond the peppy whos
we were in torn black tights at 20,
or the windy whos in scarves
that we are now, but the whos
to hopefully come knock wood—
with Velcro shoes and a sore limp
bucking above them, scuffed up
glasses on a leash, hearing aids.
But we still contained within us
all the people we'd ever been
and ever loved. We didn't have to say
the names out loud. We knew each other's
long, rambling lists like our own.
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