Pardon me, my dearest friend,
while I for two minutes make your death about me.
Because they didn’t tell us our friends would die.
Maybe his friend, or hers, or theirs,
Maybe my mom’s and dad’s,
then my dad
then my brother.
But our tribe, the ones we choose, the ones
we lounge about laughing at dumb teevee with,
the ones who teach us to cross-country ski,
and always get us the perfect gift
and agonize with over yet another pair of shoes
And then cry with and
move away from and
who never listen to our excellent advice
nor we theirs,
the ones whose cores are so strong
forged in the fire of abuse, loneliness, and
were supposed to prevail.
It’s all about me.