Ave

The year passed in rare euphoria. We connived to sing Ave beneath Mario's window. Your massive hairdryer blew the fuses like clockwork. I called you Mr. Wit. You wrote me a Kasian ode, thereby deriving an adjective from my foreign name. I was a poor speller. You said, "Rumply, you love to remember." Sometimes I was Piglet and you were Pooh, and sometimes we switched. Of the letter I wrote to your Italian teacher, you said, "It was slipped under the door and run away." We had Putin sessions to discuss the scullduggery that was afoot. You lived in Mossgown, a province akin to a garden. I set traps for myself and forgot about them.

The day before you went to England and I went to Russia, I sent you a dozen Hallmark e-cards. I post-dated them, dispersing them throughout the coming year. That was the gift that keeps on giving. This is a song that never ends.