Friending

You friended us, Jesus, and we clicked “like”

and you said meet me Thursday at the Ocotillo Pub

we had a few beers and played darts

and bullshitted about our conquests and glory days

until you told us what your embodied friending

exacts of us, of yourself:

The non-virtual friend lays down real life

like combat buddies on the front line

the one who hurtles to take the bullet

the one who treads the mine field first

or in the battlefield of the warring soul

who listens to the lacerations without flinching

who puts down his smartphone distractions

and removes the taciturn armor of self-protection

who prods your sore spots until you curse

and admit that bandages have not healed

and bro hugs you strong until you both know

you’re going to weep on each other’s shoulder

and throw another dart or two drinking Trappist brew

hanging out until they say: last call.

You’re gone now, friend, but we still go to the pub

limping along like Jacob from our old injuries

slaking our thirst in good company, befriending

strangers with gaping wounds, raising a glass to you.