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Sound-Proof Friend
by Gregory Wilde  /  poetry  /  2 Dec 2007

My depression isn't a game,
You have that memorized.
I wish I could snap out of it,
But I can't move mountains,
& if I can remember
All the pretty faces I've tasted,
Then you'd be sure bent out of shape,
& you were wrong
To treat me unkind.
What kind of friend
Leaves a brother behind?
I came to see you,
Back in S.F. town,
And you told me to sleep on your ground,
& by the way,
I've lost hope to move on,
You think it's funny I'm still in this town.
Most days I wake up
And want to fall down,
I cry for more beer
When my wallet is full of China leather,
& how can I tell you
I'm lost in a void?
While your life rolls forward,
I'm left driving 'round,
I'm glad for you and the wealth you've accumulated,
Babies in houses, and flights around the globe,
It's easy to leave me,
Invisible to the world,
& laugh it off w/ Thelma,
Drink it up with Kristen,
Show off to Christine,
All the times I was pissed,
Plus you've got a new French coat,
& I miss the way,
We'd talk when we were broke,
Drink 'till midnight,
Then fall to the floor.
Your wife thought I was Satan,
And you were Jesus Christ,
How we fooled her,
And were always out of sight,
& oh, now you're going,
W/ your new white-collar job,
To that house at the end of the world,
W/ X-Mas lights and pina coladas,
Rich neighbors and calendered vacations,
Wife and kids,
Affairs with Chinese girls at the Ritz.
But... D.B. 

I remember running around the track in college,
& you could never catch up with me.

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