A Warm Gun

He's back on the wagon
or maybe he's off it--
That expression never
made much sense to me
since both options sound shitty
for different reasons.
Regardless, it's good to see
my friend again.
Whether or not he knows it
and whether or not he's sober
he'll always have that title
be it a blessing or a curse.

"Thanks, Mike," he says
in a humbled, lowered tone
as he picks his cup o' Joe
up from the counter.
We sit and make small talk
avoiding obvious sins
at a decrepit table which should be
thrown out, but is kept for
its shabby chic peculiarity.
"What a piece of shit," he comments
as he fingers the cement hole
where a dozen tiles are missing.
I wonder how many times a day he says that.

We tighten our black wool hats
and mount up after
making a crowded table
of soccer-mom-aged women
in denial about their artist status
uncomfortable with his sailor's mouth.
I'd feel bad for his verbal transgressions
if they'd come from any other person
but from this kid I've known
for most of my life I expect nothing less
than an innocently blind vulgarity.
"Defusing", as his father rightly called it.
Most find it hard to stay mad at a man
whose only true enemy is himself.
This comes as firsthand knowledge
which has helped me notch my pistols.
It's those low-toned Thank Yous
and overzealous questions about
the state of things on my end that worry me.
When manners are grown I wonder.
I like the poison with the snake.
It's consistent, if not comforting.
It doesn't sound like Meeting-speak.

"Want one of these?" I ask
handing him a crisp, white menthol
as our feet pound on the sidewalk.
"Thanks," he says again with a tint of shame
that I wish would disappear
considering shared time.
We walk back to his place
not letting our smokes
get interrupted by too much
half-assed philosophy.
I start to recite an inside joke
from fifteen years ago
but trail off for fear of foolish nostalgia.
He finishes the sentence
and sets me at ease.
It does him the same good
to spit out the old lines.
We're two habits we can't drop.

We watch a movie sequel in his room
as an excuse to stay together.
He was right: it's not as good
possibly due to less sex scenes.
"Nice bush," I say sincerely
during the one bone thrown
by the director. He laughs
unsure if I'm joking or not.
There are some oddities
that even old schoolmates
can't decipher, though they
don't outweigh the cadavers.
Once the credits roll
he hits the lights like they'd repel
ghosts. Some of us have more than others.
We both avoid the City
for our own switch-hitting reasons.

A tiny bug crawls along his makeshift table.
"Is that a roach?" I ask.
He kills it instinctively, swearing he
hadn't seen any for a week.
The hundreds of dots on the sheets
covering his futon shapeshift into vermin.
My mother warned of bringing them home
in clothes, but I suck it up.
Leaving too soon would be disrespectful.
I'll shake out my jeans under the overbearing
overhead light. There's an exterminator
who comes to my building every week.
My friend, on the other hand, may not
be a neighbor for much longer.
Living is prioritizing.
We've seen each other naked
in the showers at the neighborhood pool
growing up.

There isn't much left to discuss.
There isn't much time to deny it.