He and I were best of friends,
when we were not so tall.
Years ago he’d sent his number,
so I gave him a call.
He told me of his marriages,
how his roof leaks when it rains,
how dandelions have claimed the yard,
and how easy carpet stains.
He told me of his children,
Bill, and Bob, and Sue,
how they never come to see him,
I helped him cry, oh my, Boo Hoo!
He told me all his aches and pains,
of hemorrhoids, and rashes too.
How he had almost died last year,
from fourteen bouts of flu.
I told him I was sorry.
“I wish there was something I could do,
but it seems my wife is calling,
so I’ll get back to you!”
He and I were best of friends,
when our world was fresh and new,
but now he’s just a memory,
with a hemorrhoid or two.
