Old Friend
There, on the side of the road —
an old friend stands.
Pull over. Stop the car.
He smiles faintly, saunters up, always knew you were weak.
Just past the back doors,
his hand is reaching out.
Punch the gas.
Swerve back into traffic.
Wipe the sweat off your face.
There, in the bar —
an old friend
leaps out of a hand.
Burns a cigarette, joint,
back of the spoon. Flames
dance across the scarred, black
bartop.
Set yourself on fire.
There, the backyard —
the green car, cruising down your street
an old friend waits.
Lock the doors, yank the blinds.
Call your momma
even though she doesn’t ever answer.
You mean it this time.
There, on the sofa —
an old friend
kicks his dirty sneakers up.
You clutch a Colt .45, remember
the call to Suicide Hotline.
Don’t let them win.
There, in little white baggies —
an old friend.
A spoonful strong enough
to start an avalanche.
Miranda Phillips is a senior studying creative writing at SUNY Oswego. She plans to move to Wyoming after graduation where she will continue her novel-writing career, ride horses, and watch the snow pile up with her blind, rescue dog, Bear.