TFLN Poem - Fans, Friends

(908):

She dumped me and then asked if I wanted to come to her improv show. Fuck theatre majors, man.

It’s this.

People come in two types.

Some want to be your friends, your company.

Some just want you as their fans.

Seat fillers.

Lasting validation lapping the flames of their candle of pride.

And if I’ve learned

A lick of anything

In this score and sixteen winters,

It’s this:

I’m not fan-chasing anymore.

You want a wall between us, fine.

Tight smile and a pause where confession should eke itself a home.

Too firm handshakes on the train, overly pitched exclamations to

Get Coffee Sometime.   Doors close.  Empty calories of time.

Me?  I’ll make with upstart living

Finding artists who are broken,

Friendly, crooked, open, not always sure.

And I’ll give my dire and impeccable word for them.

Create for them.

Pine for them.  Watch their tiny struggles as they slide their work

Into place.  Bear them witness as they grow.