you save for rainy days
or times with too much time
on your hands.
He's up at bat
while my guts are still rolling
from the last one I told.
We've needed this.
His voice alters, impersonating
the passionate hesitation
of an aging Frenchman
with whom he worked years back.
"The best way
to make love to a woman
is to
slowly
caress her thighs
and..."
He falls out of character
for long enough
to make it real.
"I hope Claude's still alive,"
he confesses.
I claim the invisible microphone
and take a turn at the helm
letting my friend's mind churn
over our mortality.
The three years between us
is enough to draw a line
though I won't cheat his development
by consoling his voiced fear.
Guys like Claude never die for long.
They only switch shoes
and learn a different laugh.
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