Howard Firkin
for J.P. & the M.M.T.B.
Not much worth ending ever finished at
the slamming of a front door, did it, brother?
Pretending otherwise is proof of that.
However distant, we’re joined, each to other;
the sure electric traction of the past.
I think of shabby offices and jokes,
of anarchy that had a payday, a crowd
of students synchronising watches, smokes
in pubs, confessions, secrets shared aloud,
of transitory times that thought lets last.
It’s never a mistake when couples split,
you said—and I can’t argue, your once friend
who keeps your letters, still admires their wit,
who holds that friendship lasts beyond its end.
the slamming of a front door, did it, brother?
Pretending otherwise is proof of that.
However distant, we’re joined, each to other;
the sure electric traction of the past.
I think of shabby offices and jokes,
of anarchy that had a payday, a crowd
of students synchronising watches, smokes
in pubs, confessions, secrets shared aloud,
of transitory times that thought lets last.
It’s never a mistake when couples split,
you said—and I can’t argue, your once friend
who keeps your letters, still admires their wit,
who holds that friendship lasts beyond its end.
