When the two of us weren’t out, we lived
on the telephone. It was anchored, loosely,
by long looping ropes, to a central spot in the cave,
where we would sit and take calls
like royalty receiving, on the long couch textured
with lurid blue and golden green. Here we advised,
and decreed, separately and collectively, to the world
that was the only world,
the world of our friends and their friends.
This was the world we were going to change.
We named books; we approved magazines;
we dubbed bands and paintings, recommended translators,
vetoed scripts; I remembered obscure lyrics
and he remembered obscurer tunes; we cited influences
and pretended to know the (one or two) things we did not.
We urged patience, hope, faith to some;
for others, we drew the bottom line. Ours was a flexible
reign. We’d get excited by a lingo and use it
ceaselessly for a week or so: “boilerplate,”
“eye candy,” “green light,” “tu sei pazzo” “mutton head.”
When we got hungry, we’d shake the pile of clothes
until we had enough change for eggs and hash browns
and split-grilled greasy sausages at Christine’s.
We were readying the troops for the great change,
the high song, that our enfranchisement
would one day bring. We could afford
to be generous. We would be in charge.
Generous with one another, too, we shared credit,
from time to time, and I suppose it looked—sincere.
I suppose it was.