Ode to Friends

My friends wear LOUD emotions.
Curse at rocks as they trip over them.
Smile at the punch line of their own bad jokes.
Cry at the grandeur of mist over a river.
And never want to apologize for throwing a fist.

My friends stay, disappear, reappear constantly.
Smoke fags not cigarettes and ask me things like
“Mijia que te pasa?” as they stir their café con leche.
They worship stilettos, dark chocolate, the horizon at the sea.
They wait for sunrise, dancing next to me on an overpass at 6am.
(Shhhh...they don’t know that the whole world isn’t a dance club in Ibiza.)

My friends could be called Activists. Ragers. Pacifists.
Hipsters. Hippies. Narcissists. Dreamers. Addicts.
They’d be OK with that because they know who they aren’t.
And they are too busy living bravely
To keep track of misperceptions.
They are game-changers. Rule-breakers. Peace-chasers.
They protect me from as far away as tomorrow
--in Australia. In Japan.

My friends drink before noon on Saturdays and
volunteer at homeless shelters on Sundays.
They are homeless and homeful like me.
They heap lost’n’found joy upon my heartbreaks.
Their laughter harmonizes with mine.
They are so. damn. strong.
Know how to fold loneliness into la masa of tortilla and soldier on.
They believe in. They reach out. They speak up.
Open and close constantly like morning glories.
Which I hate. And I love.

Ode to my friends.
Mis media-naranjas. Mis locos. My homegirls.
My brahs. Panas. Cheras. Compadres.
You are the color and the beat.
Thank you.