All those middle years,
we never talked. 
Once we whispered 
in each other’s ear
about the boy
in the red bathing suit,
then squealed
when lake grass
brushed our toes.
We knew each
other’s thoughts
in a backward glance.

Then we slipped,
pushed downhill
in middle class neighborhoods,
backhanded compliments,
piles of laundry,
grass stained knees,
wet from the fall.

we picked ourselves up,
our voices,
aged by bourbon 
fell from soprano 
to alto 
ragged.