it’s strange that i can call you now an old friend

refer to you as such, like furniture or a farting cat

a fixture that i’ve drawn around myself with age

something safe like a book with each page stained

or folded and always knowing the hero dies at the end

and the phrase old friend obscures what a magnificent

pain in the ass you actually are, with the same scarring

beauty of the sun at midday which burns burns dares

me to look away, you who dressed like a scarecrow

at a black flag concert and who always owed me money

who would take no argument over where we’d go at night

or how many lines we’d do and your laugh with teeth bared

like weapons and your unspoken assurance that we’d never

be old and then you kicked off on your bike black legs blur

always knowing there’s a bigger madder corner somewhere

in the coin bright sunlight, out along the track

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