Deliberately I snuffed
That perfect now not to
Save even a specter
Moment nor a grander
Sight a different day.
I was in direct conflict
With my memory and
Was tired of performing
For that lump who was
Either absent or abased
Me with something dark
And cold when all I needed
Was something washed
White and warm. Has he
Become unfamiliar with
The cycle, has he reason
To renege on the deal?
I perform and provide for
Him, I stow my experiences
With him (like a bank) and
He lacquers them with a
Warm white glaze, making
Them, if no more valuable,
(Like interest), at least
More appealing and
Comforting as I, in turn,
Set to making new experiences
With which to hand to him.


Could it be that perhaps
I have ignored his work?
Is it the generally cruel and
Unsatisfying way I refer to
Whole volumes of his catalog?
Is it that I have confused, on
Occasion, the waning Marion Years
With the first blossoming
Months of the Athens Years?
Have I left a cloud upon
The Columbus years; wholly
Mangled the Hands Across Ohio?


Certainly we both must have
Fault in this curious matter.
If he serves me right and I
Serve him with passion and
Animation there is little
To shun. The completeness
Of our mutual soul is,
As a part of this great system,
Naturally done. He forgives
And keeps me tucked down with warmth
And I live and really live for him.
He makes everything okay for me
And I make everything okay for me
With others. Seems fair enough.
It’s a friendship, and as a
Active participant in other
Friendships, I can honestly assess
That ours should be nothing
Less than blissfully superficial.