Every pairing requires
a pair to begin. Like Nana
said, it takes money to make
money. You need two wings
to walk between
an open cockpit biplane—
An open bar—
Both empty out
in a flood of endorphins.
I thought I’d polish the steps
like suction on polycarbonate
hold fast the moving bullet
and dangle at the verge of death.
I was the kid that poked at
rattlers. But experience focuses
and risk grows intimate.
Small talk for small spaces—
wing walkers nearsighted, only see wings.
Tonight the bar spins in dimmed fancy.
Accolades shroud the late night attrition.
I frontload my girlfriend to myriad men
many snakes in their own right.
Many open cockpit biplanes.
I scan faces like metered lyric
buy into rhythm when I can. For this
I hold fast. Every pairing begins
as a breach of a prior pair. My
girlfriend doesn’t see how quickly
she’ll be taken up, loved. I will
do the steps. Leave her to laugh
let someone else in. This
is how you exit,
this is how you wingwalk.