Yo, I’m next to my couch,
The wrong place to be tonight,
As I’m sitting in a mangled lotus pose,
Or whatever it’s called when you meditate,
The bowl is ringing,
My eyes are closed,
The crackling fire music is playing,
I’m so far gone that I can smell the fire…


Damn, I forgot to turn off the phone…

One friend,
Then another,
Followed by another, and
Finally a fourth
Each calling with a dilemma, and issue,
Kind of a social ball for pushing me to walk away
From my mental siesta
As it seemed that I was the one, the Neo
Who could help each of them
Smooth, or
Groove to a beat that would relieve them
Of the ills of the moment.

They should have been on my couch,
Checkbook in hand, but
I couldn’t charge these guys,
I’m no counselor,
Friend, not a therapist,
Although, if they wanted to throw me a few dollars…

I’d refuse,

Because these are my buds,
If I can help them (one guy),
Listen to them (another guy),
Talk another through a virtual learning problem (a different guy),
Or give the last one a platform to make excuses for falling behind on his own challenge,
I don’t mind.
These are my guys, my friends
I’ve got their backs,
They’ve got mine.

Whether it be
Detroit style,
Philly style,
Wilmington style, or
Pittsburgh style,
We all speak the same language.

Now, if I could just get them to say, “y’all” with the eloquence of the Goat herder,
And not call when I’m meditating…

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