Simpleton, sure of self, dead.

For years he wouldn't shut up,
the shaky clown, the seething boor.
We stared at the bar, squeezed our bottles
night after night till, heads bowed, we lost touch.

Twenty years later, catching up: girl to girl,
fight to fight, wedding, visitation rights,
apartment over a store. Job job job.

This one admits her reckless act - defense of defense:
single flash of a kitchen knife. Gutteral sounds, silence,
hysteria. An ambulance dispatched to the scene
whines down the street where we were born.