So Called, Friends Listening (poetic prose)

So Called,
Friends listening


It use to happen to me often, mostly during my drinking days, in bars, in
particular, but also in bed, at parties, when you simply meet people
and you have a bit of spare time on your hands, you meet them, and
they want to be your friend, they want you to stop and listen to them
(friendships take time, those that come by it quickly, so it leaves just
that way, quickly); as I was about to say, these folks I am talking
about, whom want to be your friend (or at least, they think they do, and put you on their evening menu). So, here you are, sitting at bar, and you think: here is this person I’ve been talking to, he is really,
sincere, has a lot to say, truly wants to be my friend; thus, you sit back and listen to him, or her. In the process of this meeting, you and he, order drinks, beer for me, wine for him, booze for whomever else.
And now you both are really talking away: story after story, added with a little dramatics, some arm and facial movements, even some quotes, by the rich and famous, you are almost a two person play, sitting
becoming friends. So you continue to listen; you are developing links, so you think. You say, “Hmm, yes, sure, I don’t know for sure, oh, yes, yes, I really do understand, can’t say, yaw, sure, wow, wow…!”
You almost moo like an over milked cow. Now you take a few long but slim, and dim, audible breaths you try to fit them in-between the conversation, the stories, tales, epics. He is filling up your evening
with his garbage, he has bags of it, needs to empty the trash.
I jump up, say, “Got to take a pee,” he looks at me, he wasn’t through with his story, he’s a tinge upset, I should have held it, so I read in his eye, on his lips, forehead. Again I say, “Got to go take a pee, a pee…!” He moves about, “Well, go take one then…” he shouts.

In the bathroom, I gaze into the mirror at myself, you’re a little drunk
I say: my eyes sagging, red faced, and hair uncombed, before I know it, I am walking back to the bar, the stools, the reeking smell of the dim lit, damp haven, the meeting place. I crank up a smile, this
friendship is getting a little old—already (I tell myself). My new
friend at the table swirls his barstool around, sees me coming, and hears the bathroom door click shut. Maybe now he can finish his story…so he is thinking, it is on the tip of his tongue. I start to sit down
on my stool, faintly the vowel is all but formed within his mouth,
lips throat; he then witness’ me letting out a long exhausting
breath, almost a sigh (as if to say, this conversation is getting boring, I want to be left alone). He quickly drinks down his last drink, frowns,
(he doesn’t say a word), gets up, and walks outside to his car. I had
walked to the bar…don’t care to drive when I’m drinking. I see his
headlights go on, and out of the bar parking lot his tires scream. I think
he is on his way up the block, several blocks, to “Dean’s Bar.” In the
morning the paper reads, “Man falls to sleep, behind the wheel, on Rice Street, killed!”

#2218 (2-4-2008)