Old friend,
stuck in that small town,
we tried every way we could
to kill ourselves.
That night down on the river,
that night I lost you?
That was a stupid night.
I think about it all the time.
We’d already sunk the front wheels
of your three-on-the-tree Impala
in the cow shit & mud.
Around the fire
I didn’t know half the faces.
You gnashed a palmful of pills.
You took off your shirt.
I didn’t want to ride with just anybody.
Old friend,
where did you go? I circled the flames,
banged on every back window.
Later, swaying at the water’s edge,
I started tossing rocks,
winging them hard.
I was hoping in the dark
I’d hit you.
Copyright © 2018 Joe Wilkins. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Summer 2018.