My friends keep dropping by
the wayside, dying or ending
up in what amounts to daycare
and I didn’t have friends to spare.
But if I tried to say how much
I missed them, it would be a lie.
They weren’t that sort of friend.
Nor was I.
Maybe men don’t make the sorts
of friends that women do. Or maybe
it’s just I don’t. Sometimes I feel
I got the last word in and won
I should probably try to redeem
myself, before I quit this life
this poem, but I probably won’t.
I will say this in my defense:
My friends’ families seem to feel
I showed love and was a more
or less loyal friend, and isn’t that
what matters in the end?
I have no idea.