i took the late day pushing my shoes over the tower skirts, duty free. in the show glass of every room i bent to the crowd. at one glass, shielding sweets, i met my fingertip with its father. it was a stretch when the trousercups waited or carried hands, so i did not dangle lures outside my bite. there were other games made for my drop.

the late day skirts were rushing deep. fencepost, flood, i was dodged and barreled. one barrel was an old body, Pete. We bobbed and yobbed and were in tandem for sweeping into a bar in arms. down drops off the skirt we caught one with close walls and close cover. I drafted a table, Pete hit the stick for drinks. We met our glasses with music and wet our bellys. Pete dragged his mouth and peered me.

“I’ve tied onto a new yard. It’s a mucky pull, bodies find the exit on slick, but hold on and, with me, you will catch your cups too busy for your hands,” Pete gave me.

I stretched my leathers and turned my mouth. Full cups would warm me. I have Pete thorough. He has never taken me wrong, but any yard with him, mucky is not the scale. His dots were dogging me.

“You have me, Pete, and I you. Years worth. Why pitch now?‚” I gave him.

“The yardman likes barrels open above the neck that got their flap on a latch. Draws you. Catch this: you and I, we are binding up. Our song is booked. The stretch won’t go gentle, not over you, not over me. Our cups grow holes now. You will start a rise and find your cups don’t hold hands. It is no switch that we could reach our shovels now.” He kissed his glass.

“You are solid, never taken me wrong. I knitted you might be outside empty cups and, two walls and a floor, clear for this yard,” Pete gave back.

My dots traced my drink. The long folk like Pete, they make your stretch ache, and knitting how quick the stop tightens your leathers. Pete barreled me on the best rise for his giving.

“You give it top and bottom, Pete. When I show this glass the floor I can’t follow it. My cups hold nothing for the stick, nothing for my belly.”

“You have me. My stretch has been on the rope, you’ve been indoors. I kept sweet, never loaded my cups, never wrote large. Here, my cups starve, my belly sprouts a flap and my sleeper, mucky as it is, will put me out. Maybe this is the rise for a second stretch, with your yard. But with sweet comes neat. I’m not much of a tangle, so…”

Pete hawed out and bounced a hand off a leg.

“You give it like the stretch is fresh! Too many shows for you! I’m solid there is neat pull for neat barrels. It’s done. Stop our leathers and let’s see what we can shift from my cups to our bellies before the tower barrels fill the basements.”