I knew you when you wrote bad poetry
and didn’t know which fork to use
and wore plaid, flannel shirts
with a slide rule protruding from your pocket.
On the cusp of your currency
we met again
and rushed to share forty years of life
words didn’t come fast enough
as we sought each other’s joys, pains
and marveled at the chance to share once more
our piebald dreams.
Now your face is on every screen
and your words articulate our beliefs
Contenders for public office
proudly wield your opinions
as their implements of campaign war.
People come to me for the favor
of an introduction
desiring to share in celebrity’s hierarchy,
and so, remembering our friendship
I give them the speckled help they seek.
But you have moved on
rushing to interpret today’s breaking news and
guarded by rough crews paid to fend off the unimportant –
those whose claim is old and not for profit –
unmindful that strobe-lit fame may quickly fade.
But old friends still remember fondly
those earlier, golden times
when you wrote bad poetry
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