The Friend Of My Friend Is My Enemy

No doubt this title has been used elsewhere before. But Poetic Asides wanted a “friend of a friend” poem today, and this was the first thing that popped into mind. I have a lot of friends who are hot messes; I support their choice to be hot messes while trying to help rein them in a little. But then their other hot mess friends just encourage them further. This is how people end up with all kinds of crazy addictions and diseases, I dare say.

The Friend of My Friend is My Enemy

Change places: now I’ll be the angel, perched
delicately on your right with long rubberband whispers
to cast like grapples into your empty ear

and he’ll put on horns, plant his pitchfork
deep to fire nerves and muscles, marionette your hands
to some self-destructive mischief. I like to say

I’m an enabler, full of beautiful vertigo and
suspended disbelief: but this is me changing nooses
for bungee cords, this is one secretive touch

always ready to pull you back from the brink,
tandem when we fall. And when he calls you up,
says paint your face and meet me downtown,

then I’m green with envy and green with worried
sick with glassy-eyed photographs the only evidence
of a wild night, or bruises and blood canyons

from this party or that. Where was he with
bandages and a well-placed hand? Picking meat
out of his teeth; pissing in a corner somewhere;

ready to do it again. A pitchfork always gets
too heavy in my hands, after a while: I wish my wings
stayed strong enough to carry us both.

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