Me headed out,
you returning
spewing excitement about a bird,
a Kingfisher to be exact,
in the park down the hill,
bridge as watchtower.
Between us,
zoom lense like rifle scope.
Your words crack and bounce,
overflow like popcorn
at Cinemax,
leave me to wonder,
fellow tenant,
who you are
like a tug
scratching the surface
before bad news,
de ja vu.
Weeks later
a couch, pitched like the enemy,
smacks the back pavement.
Indignant,
I investigate.
Join lobby congregation.
Your name gets batted about,
rumours abound:
bi-polar
hospitalization
suicide.
That sinking feeling
lingers all week
until I spot your surname on
returned mail in the lobby.
I Google you,
find you on Facebook.
Is it really you?
There you are: alive.
Posting photos
every few hours,
racing around Spain no less,
having the time of your life,
acting as if the whole hot country is your
plaza de toros.
A solid reminder about
why rumour mills
are bad things.