You once said, Trust
me at your peril--
I use all my friends.
I laughed, called you
friend and trusted you
just the same.
When your second
boyfriend in six months
threw you out,
I took you in
with the warning:
I'm impossible
to live with.
To prove me right,
you convinced my boyfriend
of the same.
Within a month
he was gone.
That same month, I
introduced you to
my world: boss,
co-workers, friends,
brought you happily
on board at work.
You were diligent and good.
My boss declared you
The most interesting person
he'd met that year.
Doubtless, he'd counted.
Within a year
I was gone.
You whispered sweet nothings
in his ear, convincing him
you would be better
in my place.
So you were.
Later, we mourned the loss
of lovers, other friends
one at a time.
I saw you often at the chapel,
knelt near you in cemeteries
those cool September days.
The rituals adding up.
I could write a book of
remembrance, a bible,
brought to a slow boil.
Now, when I see you,
eyes averted, we pass
like two unknowns
fearing to connect,
flesh hard, our past
weak from the burning
between us.
I see your dying eyes,
thinning veins, haunted face.
I know your number,
a street with no name.
I would call you back,
sit in orchards
of our youth under
cherry blossoms with you,
remembering us together.
Use me now, friend.
© Jeffrey Round
1997 |
