‘Wasting Company’:
An Ode to Certain Chance

That friendship is but one more form of failure,                                                         I doubt I’ve ever doubted.
Though each can be your confidante in spite
Of civility’s universal bliss,                                                                                        Your friends will be the insults                                                                     Sprinkled on love’s fair injury.

This is not even my experience;
My people are still my people
And, I think, they’re ready to term me one of theirs                                               But nothing will end this probation from loneliness,                                              The record will unleash itself and not get reset
And no-one has yet learned to make love
Through conversation alone.

However,
this is a feeling
and I am a wrong person,
and the difference between life and capital                                                               is now more slight than seems true.

So believe me now when I propose there to be nothing else                                    To make breathing conscionable
Than the inclusion of people in nature
As a means of painting their days and dreams                                                    With all that is undeniable                                                                                        And cool.

Otherwise, memories become stew                                                                           And inside jokes remain so
And no-one at all
would dutifully read or even consider this poem.

(November 2, 2015)