To James Bladwin (Who’s Dead) While Drinking Garrison Brown and Knob Creek Alone At a Bar After Finishing a Complete Draft of My MA Thesis

You look at me with wide eyes and raised brow as if I’m the one who is supposed to say something, but of course when I do, you waive your hand as if dismissing your servant, me, your servant, serving your ends, doing your bidding; you send me away, or at least what I say, and stare the other way at the wall, run your tongue over your teeth (I can’t see it, but I can tell by the way your jaw muscles rumble beneath your skin) and take one, deep, exaggerated breath, then turn back to me, your head rolling as if your neck has suddenly gone weak, and give me that same look, the same wide eyes, the same raised brow, as if it’s still my turn to say something.