...and let this be the worst of my sins.

He conveniently misses my calls all the time.
I'd like us to be more than what we are, to get
him up to speed on me, to learn his ropes and landings.
The ball's rolling around on his side of the court.
I have a feeling it always will.
There's no one there to blow the whistle.
That's alright by me.

We're two old fish with numerous hooks
streaming from our proud, wide mouths
like tattered badges of valour and injury--
they ain't reeled us in just yet, would have to wake up earlier.

At least once, maybe twice
we sat in the high school library
on our common free period
passing sheets of loose-leaf
back and forth across the table
since the angry Asian librarian, all of four-foot-nothing
ruled her precious silence with an iron fist.
Our shared sick sense of humor
made it hard to contain our laughter.
Even nerds like us could get in trouble.
Saying 'us', meaning 'him'.

When the others poked and prodded
in those loud marble hallways
I wanted to stand up.
I didn't.
They say you regret the things that you didn't do
more than the things that you did.
It's true.

Part of me sees now that it didn't matter to him
anyway. He was on a different plane.
They couldn't touch him.
A forcefield of tragic humility.
The wisdom of an old soul.
Good God, if that's a lesson...

But I put those notes in a folder, made sure to keep them.
They're in a box somewhere in my attic.
I'll dig them up one day when he finally breaks out
and changes the world in some small way
as all of us who've known him
know that he will.

He forgets that about himself sometimes.
We all do.
I'm here to remind him.

He conveniently misses my calls all the time
but it's hard for a dunce like me
to be offended
by a brilliance such as his.

It's threadbare advice, but I mean it.