The Good News by: Nicole Busch

The Good News

By: Nicole Busch

An old friend calls, so I ask her: come by?

We pop in a movie, the good stuff, and

order in, some pizza – no crust too fluff

for her or me, particularly since

its been centuries since we have caught up.

Three movies in, we have chatted away our

voices, now strained from all the big laughter.

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

I’ve had a nasty rough patch, quote unquote,

on the home front.  She empathizes with

me, sipping sparkling cider cupping tiny

cupcakes in our adult hands, encompassed

with sympathy, not the normal joy she

has.  It’s strange how people change with some time.

It’s great to see her, good to have a friend

who feels the same as you, even when you

know she is just trying to bring a smile.

While some grass is greener, your small plot is

crudely arable, and though you’re not so

old, there is still time before your world ends.

As if a light clicks on, she spills her news.

And though I was tired, I swear it’s true,

In that dim light, she looked not like my friend

but someone I had just met, and had not

known her name.  I had to wonder, if that

had given the night its so early end?

By morning, half of what she said was a

blur; like I was drunk, but I was sober.

Just her good news, and my tired goodbye,

the click of the latch, and the quiet hall.

 _________________________________________________________________________________

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.