One of my best ex-friends
was a man who was roughly
the same age as me, who I met
by accident in the pursuit
of friendship by means
which I knew were folly,
but I still went ahead.
I was hoping for a better pay off
to the hobbies I got involved in.
At first George seemed kind,
bold, and ruggedly handsome.
He also had a very attractive
rural Irish brogue when he spoke.
This mattered a lot, since at root
the friendship was built around
how much he wanted a listener
who he could test to exhaustion
with travellers tales that went nowhere.
I obliged him in this for twenty years.
For some of his more distraught stories
I found him a therapist who I thought
might help him listen better to himself.
He never stuck any therapist for long,
particularly when he simply wanted attention.
It all ended with a whimper,
when, at last, I could not give him
the attentiveness he sought,
early in the lockdown from Covid.
For being tired I refused
to apologise for being unable,
and unwilling, to listen to more
of his jabbering. I don't regret it.
