Rufus runs towards me,
wearing a mask,
but excited,
stopping short
of a hug.
he is obviously inebriated,
and that's okay;
we air high-five
and point towards the sky.
we launch into The Last Dance,
the Michael Jordan/Chicago Bulls
documentary on ESPN,
agreeing that is is amazing.
I ask if he has written lately,
and he shrugs me off,
to which I push him to write more,
because he is a darn good writer.
I am this pest with people I love,
mainly for therapy, especially
during these wacky, unsafe times,
firmly believing art and words can save the world.
stupidly, throw the frisbee,
ride our bikes to the gas station,
where he gets beer and I get
beef jerky and sugar-free soda.
we head to the river,
feed the fish our spit,
talk about love and death,
interrupted by rain.
Rufus rides away
a different way than he came,
low shoulders and dread,
and I hope he writes before passing out.