For Peter
As you recount tales of literature lectures,
of writing symposiums,
of ivy vines clinging to walls of ancient brick
opportunities.
I am struck by the fiercest jealousy that I have ever known.
Made more bitter by the fact that your words do not drip with gloating pride
(moist, perhaps, but certainly not dripping).
No, your words shine with a blinding excitement.
A taunting contagion.
A knowledge of what you love.
And a promise that you will have it.
Slumming amidst grease traps and deep fryers,
for some a dead end, but no, not you.
Last summer’s employment now a springboard towards world domination.
Your master plan sweeping across your life like plastic pieces across the continent of the risk board where we played last summer.
And I know
that you will suck the meat of life down to its wretched core.
And suck the marrow from those frail remains.
But I wonder
will there be any left for me?