Gus

Tripping over exposed roots as we scurry
through the world, like two thieves on the run.
I shouldn’t expect you to hold my hand, Gus,
not when life is something to be done
in a hurry. We can make new friends, again,
hanging out by the stump or some other dive.

Who needs a circle to connect with when I know
you’re with me? You’re no stool for me step on,
nor I you. We stand by one another, offer shade;
what else is there? My sister said you were a fun
guy, so I really shouldn’t expect you told my hand,
like two school boys might before bullies poke fun.
The things we have, they break down; we move
on to new and old things. It keeps our lives fresh
makes our lives something more than detritus. And
me with my licker like Gene Simmons, I was a punk
sitting around and setting up where ever I could
until that day you popped up, and I could hop
for it was you I hopped to. I’m all right, I guess
because I guess it’s right, that I shouldn’t expect
you to hold my hand, Gus. Two guys in love,
well that’s just silly. They’d sooner believe
love could grow between a mushroom
and a toad.