My husband says I expect too much from a friend,
“not that what you want is wrong,” he hastens to add.
But I refuse to believe it’s so hard to find someone
who could tell me what happened today.
Who was there? What color was the sky?
What made you feel so relaxed? So insane?
What was so funny? So sad?
What did you eat? Was there butter? Or garlic?

I’d enjoy a joke so funny our tears would run,
a wit so sharp there could be no reply.
I’d gladly bow to your brilliance again and again.
Then you could ask what I’ve been doing,
and I’d tell my truth, and maybe you’d agree,
though I wouldn’t mind a fight. We won’t discuss poems,
because that ruins the hours when I turn to this page,
at home with my other friends, these words.