April 1

Our friend wonders what’s with wrong you,

you who promised to call and, so far
far from delivered. You claim nothing,
nothing, is wrong. You claim this because
causes of such things are tough to relay.

Really, you want to admit there’s no space,
(space meaning time) in your life, for a past
passed by, for awkward conversation about
a bout he’s been having with his wife.

Suppose you called, on cue, each weekend
and tried to update him, briefly, on what?
What you love, hate? What stands in for
four years since you last shared a plate,

placate his request for closeness, replace
places you’ve gone since you knew him,
hem the bleeding and tears and dressing
dressed up in a fine and cauterized knot.

Not that you don’t want to chat. It’s just that
that moment, when you were better men,
men who had not yet committed such acts,
(acting now seems so pointless), has passed.

Past is sometimes best left in drawers,
drawn on only in moments of moving,
moved best from a box that has collapsed,
closed up and carried to the curb in a bin.

“Been too long,” he’ll say. And you’ll agree,
agree so as to appear to be that same man.
Man, what costs for a call, costs for that hour.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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