This time I leave with you
through the door you ran in yelling my name hardly nine minutes ago.
We walk on the slush infused sidewalks
alarming those around us by
scream-laughing, swearing, falling in the snow red-faced and wheezing.
We get to your house and you guys
plug in your ipod
blasting songs that talk about
grown up things.
Hairography, wrinkled rugs,
and a seven-month-old chocolate peep later
you're on the phone with my best friend
and I apologize to her while I watch
you drop a pet rabbit and scream.
The men building the church next door
look at us strangely as I spit outside and then get dragged back into
the pulsating mess that is our friendship.