I found something akin to a medicine man
in the way he would offer up his philosophy.
Tabby cats lounging on garage roofs
are the ******* icons of Mother Nature.
When he would huff on nitrous oxide,
he'd come to, and say to God:
“Well, now you're just showing off.”

We spent long nights in his high-rise flat,
discussing the nature of our morbid thoughts.
I once told him that I trusted by default,
and to that he said I may as well believe
in the British summer.
He was self-assured and self-involved,
using me as a passive Dictaphone,
as a kind of straw-man audience.

I still think of him sometimes
when my **** is wet and I'm sitting in grass.
It reminds me of that cannabis glow,
and the way we stayed up to watch the cathedral
light up like an old cartoon.