I’m pushing Camus up this stony slope,

Nothing but shades of gray to mark the days-

You’d think we’d meet in some well-lit cafe,

But here we are, talking about no hope,

Or it’s Albert holding forth, while I cope

With his boulder shape, feet slipping in clay.

There’s really no rhyme nor reason, he’ll say

Just the task at hand, as over he rolls

Holding his knees to form a hoop, the coat

Muffling his voice, but on still he speaks,

We reach the top again (I’ve lost count) and float

Just a moment there, on our dim peak.

Improbably he’s able to light a smoke,

Then tumbles as I chase after his laughter.