|Breakfast, 1921, Fernand Leger|
via Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales
My friend talked like noise trembling,
suspended in nothing.
His words stifled the natural roar
released after power-packed punches,
that normally leave us empty,
suffocating in our own bile,
gasping for air.
“So what! They left.”
He needed no one, he said.
Nervously twisting his diamond ring,
nonchalantly checking his Rolex,
alluding to his Armani suit,
citing success of investments and salary boosts -
I could see his destitution.
not just the bet we’d made long ago
about who’d win this game,
but his face
amidst the pieces,
fragments of a puzzle with no mold
to make him whole.
I heard his eyes tell me to be quiet,
to be a friend,
and accept that this is his best,
I shook his hand, walked away
trying not to judge or elevate
my life from his,
knowing we’re all winners or losers…
Still, I wonder, what is a friend?
But I wish him well
and hope he’s there
if ever my turn
at disconnection arrives.