I have a friend
that has a permanent
room
in the crummiest
hotel you've never
heard
about.
He's a loner,
a thinker,
a genius,
a philosopher at times,
an idiot,
a killer,
a smoker,
a lady's man,
a wordsmith, the best of all time.
He's everything that
I'm not
yet everything that
I am.
Sometimes late at night
he calls
"Let's go out, Chris.
Let's go out into the night."
And I mumble back
"Not tonight,
not ever,
you're no friend of mine."
A big grin
materializes into his face,
I can't see it
but I feel it,
and the witty *******
goes silent.
He's always there,
sitting,
smoking his cigars,
in that cheap hotel room,
waiting for my
trips out.
When I'm out
he's always there
ready to join the fun,
and when I'm out,
really out,
out of here,
out of mind,
the ******* will leave me
on the streets
disembodied,
naked and frail,
and he'll borrow my wallet,
my I.D.
and I swear to you,
my face, my body.

(original title: My Friend)                       .