My buddy Freddy
is an odd duck, or
a weird bird, or perhaps
an unusual animal:

maybe it’s one
from the past and
fits his clothes?
Some folks dress up

like a bird here. They all
act weird. Fits
their clothing choices.
I don’t see it, frankly;

they got to have a reason
and they don’t seem to
have a reason. Just a gem,
a tapstone. Just enough

to keep me free.
That’s not enough, though;
hiding in the dark
is all I have. Meanwhile

Freddy laughs and giggles
about pressure and the gain
of companionship — wait;
that’s not it. That’s not it at all.

He’s lost and in the maze
of relations and old baggage
and it’s all I can do to think
he meant something to me,

and he did, and it’s
nothing at all
that he’s the killer.
Nothing at all. Just the bones

matter now. The bones
of giggling and contention.
The mystery of the stairwell,
and the lost knowledge of the street.

Ever have a friend like Freddy?
He is all the bird I need: flitting elsewhere
and letting the light guide his way. Meanwhile
he’s a menace and I am alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T