Together,	
twenty and I keep the kingdom in our midst at bay —
trade IDs, sponsor carnivals for the lapsed sons			
of the neighborhood, make vicious feints 
now and again at sealing the deal. This is the deal: 
we are going to date. Not nubiles; each other. He 
will bolster my credibility with the Epicureans
who challenge gravity on the college lawn. I will 
park him beside village cranks in the Queen City 
and teach him to separate agony from disbelief. 
In the evening we will coordinate a six-act with the 
Worst Night of My Life. A certified PBT operator
will deliver the epigram and keep the after-party
beverages from the littlest. I will not say I could do 
better; he will not say I could have done worse. 
Opening night we will compose ourselves behind 
the curtain. This isn't everything. This is one thing 
we do. One night only and then we dim the lights 
forever. Rumors will circulate of a split, a bad fall. 
Your hands have touched the hands of a murderer, he'll say 
as the audience departs. Shake my hand or die, 
I'll respond. Thirteen minutes later, he is devoured.