When you shouted you were a hit man
and lunged across the sidewalk at Sam's forehead
with your third finger stretched like a weapon
under the battered green siding of the old Eureka Inn
let him be delusional.
You were, I think.
No deaths nor impact accrued.
Your laughter a deflection
as sure as the shield of our affluence.
And we all stumbled away
you to that private adventure of supernatural swashbuckling
perhaps at others' expense in mirthful dark alleys
we to dinner
and the small sounds of bland eating
under this cloudy encounter
with the unhinged.
I will hold all of my many questions.
Another evening, I assume, your greeting will be mundane.
Tonight, you quickened our pulses
and stretched long the ache of remembrance that says
we are all uncertain kin.
I am sorry I had nothing to offer you but our escape.
Next time I will fervently hope for yours too
though I failed to catch
a long look
at your face.