The Good News

                      A friend calls, so I ask him to stop by.

We sip old Scotch, the good stuff, order in,

some Indian—no frills too fine for him

or me, particularly since it's been

                                       ages since we made the time.

                      Two drinks in, we've caught up on our plans.

I've sleepwalked through the last few years by rote;

he's had a nasty rough patch, quote unquote,

on the home front. So, we commiserate,

                                       cupping our lowballs in our hands.

                        It's great to see him, good to have a friend

who feels the same as you about his lot—

that, while some grass is greener, your small plot

is crudely arable, and though you're not

                                       so young, it's still not quite the end.

                      As if remembering then, he spills his news.

Though I was pretty lit, I swear it's true,

it was as if a gold glow filled the room

and shone on him, a sun-shaft piercing through

                                       dense clouds, behind which swept long views.

                      In that rich light, he looked not like my friend

but some acquaintance brushed by on the train.

Had his good fortune kept me from the same,

I had to wonder, a zero-sum game

                                       that gave the night its early end?

                      Nothing strange. Our drinks were done, that's all.

We haven't spoken since. By morning, I

couldn't remember half of what the guy

had said, just his good news, my slurred goodbye,

                                       the click of the latch, the quiet hall.