11.19.2011

Chaz and a Son's .38

An old friend
a true one
the kind you may
not see for years
but still remembers
what you look like
when you're laughing
from the gut
or when you struggled
with algebra and your first
case of the 'ache
plucked me from
my vault today:
a conjugal visit with life.
His brief tour of my apartment
ended down the stairwell.
"Still haven't kicked
the habit?" he asked
as I lit up, not quite sure
which one he meant.
"Only when I'm working
drinking, or single," I replied
not realizing all bases
were covered.

As we came upon his
jalopy he keyed his way
into the passenger door
for me, which I found odd
for many reasons
one of them being
that there was ever
a time without a clicker--
another throwback
to the era when we first met
thus making the illusion
of time travel stronger.
I rolled into the seat
noticing how clean
the light brown
carpets and upholstery
were for such an early model.
The interior was almost spotless
though rust had claimed the bumper
and...

I fumbled for the driver's side lock
but it was already too late.
He'd turned the key
a sad grin fighting its way
to the surface in the face
of our nostalgia.
"Oh no. You failed the test,"
he jokingly accused
fairly assuming that I'd catch
the movie reference.
"I know, I know," I apologized
relieved to be a part
of an inside sort of something
instead of the outcast of late.
He slid into the pilot's chair
and turned over the engine
still the same, but different
in such rare and craved proportions.

I refrained from using his nickname
too much. A man has a right
to his preference
of hat. A spade is a spade
is a friend who remembers
before reputation took over.

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