My old friend, Stan, gave up his life in
return for a few radishes-radishes that
were old and had potato bugs stuck on them.
You said you would not go back to that place,
the place with the dirty walls and dirty homeless
fools who fell from grace,
who switched from being businessmen to jerks
wearing brown jackets.
I am not proud to admit this, but my old friends
are like this, old and misused ones who would
trade a million dollars for a drink of beer,
for a date with a hooker, for a credit card.
The dreams are not there any longer.
They have been buried underneath piles of sand
by parents who thought too much about themselves
instead of their own children,
about handmade pot holders with pictures of
snowflakes on them.
My old one fell behind the stove.
I can't use it anymore.
I asked Jon how his date with the hooker went.
He stared at me, bleary eyed, smelling of too
much beer and onion rings,
his sorrow in a bottle, his eyes holding back tears.
He has problems with finishing the things he started.
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