There are stories there, but they aren't mine - whereas this is, and about how friendships end. I wish this one hadn't.
Sonnet In Memory of Steve Francis
Steve told me I would probably get fat;
'you'll hurt so much,' he said and worried that
I'd give up boys and turn into a dyke,
would stop being his friend, no longer like
the obscure broadway shows that he'd put on
when I went round. We'd have a marathon
of things that closed in days. ' And you won't fit
your Ossie Clark, the white one with the slit
that shows your legs.' He turned away and teased
his wig and fixed his lashes. I was pleased
he cared, and sad he didn't get it, so
I made excuses, really had to go.
Those were the last words either of us said
and I'm a fat old dyke and Steve is dead.
I didn't lose many friends to the epidemic, but there were some - and I miss that we never got past this very quiet row.