Our little tribe on the borderline
of the land of the lions and the land of the lost.
Which of us will fall behind?
The coffeeshop fills with the taste of exhaust. 
——
Orbiting planets that never collide,
at home or at haunts where we once used to write.
The old days are scattered and cut from the calendar
We scribble alone on Lufthansa flights.
——
It’s a circle of friends but it’s not a bonfire.
Even at parties it gets colder and colder
We whoop it up like returning messiahs
He asks how you’re doing as his eyes surf your shoulder.