An Old Friend By Whitney Osburn

An old friend

By Whitney Osburn

 

A friend walks by, so I ask her to stop.

We sip lemonade, great stuff, order in,

Fresh Mexican food, the thrills are too good,

For either her or me, particularly,

Since it has been a long time, since the last,

Time we got together, it has been so long,

We have been sleeping through the last few years.

We haven’t written at any time since.

Three drinks in, we sip, sip, sip lemonade,

Gripping our glasses with two tiny hands.

It’s great to see her; she’s such a great friend.

We feel the same about most everything

We agree it’s okay to disagree,

We take a walk around the corner block,

But then stop, to see the wonderful birds sing.

Then she remembers and old memory,

We were both little wearing pink dresses,

Running off the yellow school bus from school,

We ran inside to get some lemonade.

It had sat on the counter just as it had

Today at my place, a clear jar of pink

Juice, with two little cups, sitting right there,

Just as when we were very small young girls.

We sat reminiscing the past,

And how beautiful our lives have become.

The she remembered she had to leave quick.

We haven’t spoken since, that short, short day.

I remembered all we had talked about.

Mostly when she had to leave quickly,

The turn of the knob, the shut of the door.

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The Good News

BY DAVID YEZZI

A friend calls, so I ask him to stop by.

We sip old Scotch, the good stuff, order in,

some Indian—no frills too fine for him

or me, particularly since it's been

ages since we made the time.

Two drinks in, we've caught up on our plans.

I've sleepwalked through the last few years by rote;

he's had a nasty rough patch, quote unquote,

on the home front. So, we commiserate,

cupping our lowballs in our hands.

It's great to see him, good to have a friend

who feels the same as you about his lot—

that, while some grass is greener, your small plot

is crudely arable, and though you're not

so young, it's still not quite the end.

As if remembering then, he spills his news.

Though I was pretty lit, I swear it's true,

it was as if a gold glow filled the room

and shone on him, a sun-shaft piercing through

dense clouds, behind which swept long views.

In that rich light, he looked not like my friend

but some acquaintance brushed by on the train.

Had his good fortune kept me from the same,

I had to wonder, a zero-sum game

that gave the night its early end?

Nothing strange. Our drinks were done, that's all.

We haven't spoken since. By morning, I

couldn't remember half of what the guy

had said, just his good news, my slurred goodbye,

the click of the latch, the quiet hall.