For Mark Wallace.

There's definitely a closeness between us,
yeah, a closeness,
the kind expressed with the rings
an empty glass of beer leaves on a counter.
The kind of closeness
that can only be explained with me
thinking about us being friends before we were friends.

So, if we would've been friends during junior high,
I'd invite you over to show you
the long list of metal I downloaded on Napster,
and we'd listen to ...And Justice for All on loop
with my bedroom door locked,
dominate dungeons on Diablo
while spending two hours trying to burn a mix CD.

Even if I would've known you before last summer,
I would've called you at two in the morning,
to tell you the same story that,
"Yeah, the part of my head right behind my eyes
really hurts. Burns, even. I don't know why it always hurts."
I'd thank you for listening,
come over and tell your mom she's a babe.
Come over the next day and clean your pool
and empty your fridge.

We'd go in your room and talk
about girls we love and had loved.
Like, you could've talked about
that time you and an ex
were coming home from the movies,
ready to lay on a ripped futon,
rest your head in her lap
and have her hum something Top 40
until your eyelids went clunk.

But no.
Instead of the humming,
the ripped futon nap,
she decided to try and go down on you
the same time a deer limped bow-legged
from a ditch, dropping its shoulder
right before the hood of your Celica
bent inward like a folded accordian
going for soft crecendo.

And in that instant,
what scared you the most
wasn't the penis dangling
in your ex's mouth like live bait
or the B-movie hatchet face
the deer made against your windshield,
but the fact that you realized
your windshield wipers didn't work
as you flipped the lever up and down
trying to scrape the clumps of hair from your line of site
so you could putter home
and nap.