When We Speak Of Old Friends

Once I told him he owed me thirty dollars

only because I knew he’d pay up. I never said

I thought his girlfriend was prettier than mine. I thought

about that often. Sometimes I’d let him win at games.

If I knew he was bored and in trouble I’d start a fight

at the bar to make him smile. He always paid tabs.

He didn’t look anything like my brothers. He laughed

just because. He walked everywhere and marked new tags

in the neighborhood with gold stars. He had a map. He had

a disability check every month. He was fine. It was he

who swam the Wabash from Terre Haute to Lafayette. He lied

for a good story. He was one-hundred and thirty-three still

growing. Before he left and went somewhere else a few men

were beaten outside a 7-11. We went there all the time.

Then the cashier started watching me. If good-bye was a style

you wouldn’t think of giant fires. But he did.