New Boys and Old Boys

We ate and laughed
and drank and you were there,
in the little light room,

surrounded by your antipathy
in the form of friends.
I suggested a conversation;

it was lost in translation
of your anger to foam
to an ice cube
pressed against your lips,

a coddling of ice akin
to a hand against your hip

that I knew you missed so well.

He was older than you in a way,

because he was gone quicker than you

and you

still

love him.

In a quiet way,
perhaps,
you
still
love him.

I could tell you that a million times

and every time it would be true

but you won't grow any older

than a flower in the mud,
a perennial of metallic dissonance
that scrapes back against the boots
trying to wilt and depress it

to the wet ground.  I knew

that we could never convince you

of your importance to the world.

That would be an idea
discovered yourself,
maybe later and farther away.
All the men I know discover themselves

in their thirties, when they stop trying

to prove to everyone the importance

of love.  Deep down you want
peace and quiet

just as much everyone else.
So be content with that.