Occasionally,
I think back to those times.
Friendship spoiled like aged milk.
Curdled putrid,
far beyond its best-used-by date.
I was impressed at first,
by your confidence, laughter,
your louder-than-life self.
We became best friends,
roommates two years in school.
Slowly I realized
you craved attention.
Demanded the spotlight.
Used people
to make yourself the star.
Life’s circumstances
sent us to different cities.
We married, had children,
successful careers. And then,
we were thrown together again.
You relocated to where we were.
Kids in the same school, same grades,
same interests. Old times linked us
in others’ minds,
at church and kids’ events.
But you lived in the Heights,
we lived in the Flats.
You paraded that, flaunted it.
I was okay with that,
merely irritated.
Your husband
exhausted by your demands,
your goal to shine,
became more than irritated.
Driven to depression and anger,
he fled to the arms of another.
So you, ever the diva, consumed by ego,
picked up a knife, stabbed him.
Just once.
He gave you the spotlight.
He died.
On parole, you called me.
Went on and on
about his indiscretion.
Claimed it was self-defense.
Practiced your defense on me.
I hung up that day. Done.
You went to prison.
I went on living,
loving my husband, my family,
and our life.
Just shows you I supppose,
some friendships
were never meant to be.
Written for dVerse where today we’re asked to a) write about friendship and b) begin our poem with the first line of another poet’s poem posted on dVerse. My first line, “Occasionally” is from Christine Bolton’s Senryu. Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay
lillian the home poet 