by Gabe Eyrich

Last night I found my old friend,
online.
I wept at the sight of her.
She is a visual artist now,
Master of Fine Art,
a post-photographer
who looks like Adam Driver.
I’m not surprised 
at how she sees.
I remember that night
in the Irish Pub
when I refused to refer her to the Peace Corp
because she had no experience
with poverty or physical suffering.
She had looked past me then,
across the table,
to the bar,
to the backside of a woman 
wearing a long, tawny suede skirt
holding her bottom 
like an upside down heart
sealed with a zipper at the upside-down top, 
she had looked past me
and said slowly, her full-lipped mouth agape
in sincere admiration,
“Look 
at her 
ass.”