An Anonymous Letter of Concern

Oh, the places we go.

I’ve lost you, my friend,
to our age.
I guess I can’t compete with athletics,

and poetry has never been as enticing
as running, or the things that I imagine
my peers do on weekends.

I’ve lost you, my friend,
somewhere on those forest tracks
that stink of XC flats and beer…
where the race-path fingers of Destiny radiate
from hempen college applications,
and sign-up forms still soggy
with the sportsy weight
of >.002% blood.

I am the nine-nine-point-nine-nine-eight percent,
a 99% hollow student
occupying the dark pews
of some lecture hall rife with–
I don’t quite know yet,
but it smells like printer paper
and meaningless poems,
unused condoms
and mindless salaries.

it is where I am now,
where I might always be:
some isolated work room
with one executive window
overlooking those inebriate woodlands,
where I stand and will stand
helplessly omniscient
above the dirt pathways that God, ironic,
has wrought for you.

I see you, my friend,
and your friends too,
all racing down those last legs
towards finish line flags,
or home base skirts,
that wave thin and auspicious
with triumph.

I see you, my friend,
drunk with wind
and breathing heavy
against competing feet,
on triple-C pavement

or triple-X sheets.

in my abstinence, intelligence,
I am isolated.
I have lost you all,
I have cast you all out
in drunken forest and smoking metaphor
for myself, my dry pursuits–

I hope now, weakly,
that some judgment or detour
will lead you to my doorstep,
where with absinthe or beer
we can walk down roads woven
by those anonymous hands of Fate…
maybe more ironically
than if they kept me here,
in my windowed head,

The End

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