Good Friend

by Craig Kirchner

My father was good at being a friend.

If you were one, you were good,

and so, there were quite a few.

They did for one another, like thumb,

and fingers, always coming together,

no matter the spread.

He was good with his hands,

rebuilt a Chevy and a motorcycle,

drove the cycle to work,

rewired a 25-hole Bally,

he traded a ping pong table for—

know anyone had a saved pinball.

He bailed me out, at 17.

He knew a guy.

He knew a guy who knew a guy,

who convinced the BCPD,

that running from a three-car sideswipe,

was negligent driving.

I wasn’t driving, but it was my car,

drunk asleep in the back seat,

negligent was an understatement.

Never heard what it cost,

who or how, worked it out,

never heard anything, he stopped talking.

I lost him, should have been my best friend,

I moved out, it lasted years.

I got him back. I knew a guy.

I knew a guy who knew a guy,

who hooked us up, we talked,

it was good, shortly after, he died.

Craig Kirchner thinks of poetry as hobo art, loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review,Wild Violet, Last Leaves, Literary Heist, Ariel Chart, Cape Magazine, Flora Fiction, Young Ravens, Chiron Review, Yellow Mama, Valiant Scribe and several dozen other journals.