NOTE TO A FRIEND AT THE BETTY FORD CLINIC

when I send you a text
asking you how you’re doing out there
in the desert
and you respond four days later
with, “huh?”
I don’t get the impression
that you have been rehabilitated

instead, I picture you running
terrified and strung out
through a cemetery
where all the headstones
are empty bottles of Jim Beam
and each is wearing a pink
and green sweater-vest

(like the kind that you wore
that used to make me beat you
back here in Port City)

and you’re back on the phone
with the cops
telling them I won’t leave your house
because you drugged me good
that I won’t even move
at all
because
with every single twitch
you spray pellets all over me
with your goddamn Airsoft gun

like that time at your dad’s place
when we were all fucked up
on everything

ah, the good old days

buddy, I’m not gonna lie
I miss you
and the times we had
but you do what you have to
to make it through
this world
intact
out of the hospital
and far away from jail

I hope the water’s wet out there for you, Kid