50/Fifty

I had to be here, on Division east of Western,
At 50/Fifty; and you there, north of North.
I had not to call, nor text,
Not to wonder, I knew you were safe,
Because you did not call or text.
I had to hear myself over the rumpus,
Just to remember that I could name names
Of the overdressed and oversexed,
Shrugging off wars but immersing in stats and games
And critical scores,
Not that there are any to settle anymore, at 50/Fifty.

Down in the basement,
We stew in a broth of desperation.
We stir and caress like sister-brothers,
Roll eyes at and bump against Others,
Thinking and tagging them so,
When only the slightest salty dash of data:
A favorite Psalm or poet of choice or private wish
Could ricochet now off a dish in northern Virginia,
Spill into my Palm and flavor this moment, this space between
With something worth savoring—with tongue but not voice—
Worth saving, in flesh-memory, not Flash drive.
Alas, now that we are digitalive
There is no either/or anymore,
Only half what we see and half what we say.
We are 50/Fifty.

These primates drown themselves in their own noise.
In squads of three and four we pose, and posture, and lose poise.
Bartering to winnow down the ratios
Close to one-on-one,
We stir unearned pride into twelve-dollar bourbons;
We choke down the joke, and baring our teeth
Lest we forget this setting
This round of getting to yes/no's,
We flash and light down this pageant
Onto a magnet of 1's and 0's,
At 50/fifty.

Upstairs in our room we lay, in our binary bed, one up one down.
I had to be there to get back here,
To wager the ball of that moment against the wheel of these years.
The curves of our respective gravities turn so oppositely
That you and I, now, across the twittering interference of the blogosphere,
Might never have met.
It may feel like marital Russian roulette, but compared to that?
If the odds that we make it are 50/Fifty,
I’ll take this bet.