It's not something you notice.
Years pass,
maybe you don't keep
in touch
as much as you would like.
He's the reason you're writing
and you can't even shoot him a phone call,
what kind of **** is that?
Then you see him;
maybe leaving a movie theater
or in passing at a restaurant.
His hair is long-- mangy--
eyes low and wandering,
you shake his hand,
brief hug.
He's been drinking.
You can smell it as good
and strong as
you can see it.
He smiles briefly,
spares a few words;
an old joke that
doesn't seem
funny anymore.
And that's it.
It's scary.
There goes your hero,
****** it's scary.
Everyone's old now,
and all of the hope
of the future
has replaced itself
with the tangible
harshness
of memory.
You look back
just to make sure
it's real.
Thank god
he's not standing there
anymore.