She's like L.A., she has style but no culture...

I feel the blog is becoming too personal, and not anecdotal enough. blah blah blog. Anyway. This is a poem I wrote years and years ago when I was filled with angst.

For Sherrianne and Sputnik:
Where are you, my friend
who's flown off like that dog in space
and left me with the pedestrians
to solve this puzzle on my own.
I would have come to comfort you,
if I'd known, if they'd told me.
Instead I struggle with your memory,
knowing, not knowing, that the lack of oxygen is killing you.