One to nine

The other day an old friend from high school
comes to my house
a sad character with whom
I hadn't heard from
since graduation
and would you believe
that after all these years
the first thing he says to me is
that he's too drunk to stand up
so we sit down awkwardly and he starts talking about this
and that, until finally he admits that
He has fallen into a sorry state of disrepair
he is a morbid caricature of his former self
There are large gaping holes in his stomach
something, I observe, has been eating away at him for years
‘Do you think I will ever be able to get my life together?’
is all he asks, then just stares and awaits my honest
reply, for I was always someone he could trust to give
him my honest opinion
he might as well have handed me a gavel
I didn’t answer him
I just told him about these concrete statues I once saw
at a bus stop in Portland
like me they were sullen, waiting for the bus
that had not come;
one man was scratching his concrete head over a
sudoku
in the back of his concrete newspaper
another was frozen in the act of lighting a concrete cigarette
and years later,
when I went back to that place
they were all still there
every one of them
waiting
for the bus
for the nicotine hit
for all the numbers to align
from one to nine