Fly past restaurants barren of Friday night crowds, pass pedestrians frozen mid-walk.

I let you lead, want you to set the pace.

Feel the texture of bricks then pavement then gravel under rubber tire, swim suspended

in humid Florida air, under palms oscillating—

We should cross over the bridge soon.

Nothing bars me from the intercoastal but a foot of cement. Legs pumping and burning and lungs

gasping . . . eyes gluttonously gorging on mansions and dangle-lights in trees and kittens running

past my knees and pools beckoning to be broken into.

We need to cross the bridge.

Hitting this pothole for the second time today, this is why you need to lead; you have the brighter

light.

Leafy shadows stain the sidewalk, light drizzling through the bushes—a cinematic montage.

Last year running away was an escape, this year it’s a release

of energy. Here, you go ahead of me, just cross the bridge when we come to it.

You ask me to photograph you on top of the bridge

with the same skyline we’ve always seen and the same lights that have always shone.

We’ve finished our route, but where are we going?