What if texting could be like our days of letter writing?
And we talk about bullshit and enjoy our brain connection.
We were intellectual and artistic
and the world fueled our spite,
we spit-fired feminist in Austin Texas of 1998.
I would sketch like Vonnegut and wordsmith to you,
and you would wordsmith back,
Like our own private open mic night.
We ate music
and breathed in Camel Light cigarettes
while listening to Sonic Youth and talking Leonard Cohen.
Our heads thought of Lousie Erdrich,
and of other things rich in texture:
– Freshly baked sourdough loaf being torn apart
– Shoplifted white wine
– Green apples, to help smooth the sharp Chardonnay
You inspired me and I don’t remember telling you that –
and I feel a bit of sadness,
that we have been letting our age get the better of us.
I can’t wait for your visit
(and) I fear it as well
because I fear I’ll lose you
to being a grown-up,
and I miss you most,
and our intellectual sisterhood.