My pen pal grew up a hop, skip, and a jump away from my historic home in the trite small town USA.
He was too good for me as a boy, and too bad for me as a man.
with sandy combed-beach locks and humbling stumbled eyes,
course hands from a hard day’s labor and a stiff back from too many hours reading at the desk,
my pen pal had a knack for telling you everything at a glance, and nothing with a stare.
I’m not sure if he believes in reincarnation,
Though I’m certain he wouldn’t rule it out if you gave him some literature, a pack of smokes, and some time to meddle through it,
but I think we might have been in a war together.
There’s not much more that brings two people together than the atrocities of man;
it is a bond that not even the Romantic lovers could understand
(unless of course you were in the war and were also lovers, but I’m not sure many companions know of that).
I don’t know how he takes his coffee or what his hair smells like,
but I know that if God had gifted me with the ability to paint,
he wouldn’t have a mere poem.
I’d make him something worthy of the Met, but it’d be on the back of some todo list
both because our pursuits do not lend well to earthly values
and because that is what he is, a masterpiece you’d never expect.
Only the curious would check both sides before discarding what appears to be ordinary.
My pen pal could write these words better than I do, but he wouldn’t because I don’t know if he feels the kind of love that gives your ribs tiny tiny stress fractures because it doesn’t crush you at once, but slowly, and with repeated wear and tear restructures your framework
(and also it’s a bit rude to dedicate poems to oneself).
So I would not dare display hubris in the sight of the divine,
for every human thinks that his and her own story is worthy of record and tale,
but if the good Lord did grant me that monastic virtue, and I could truly see
that this boy really is worth the songs of old,
I’d serve as bard or muse only as
he is the reason of composition.
So, to you, my wordsmith, I send the deepest praise that a scribed secret can capture,
I wish I had your gifts, but I will always offer you mine,
be good.
erinstidham 