On Thursday,
a Thursday in 1929,
I knew we were destined to go our separate ways,
I figured it out on the backend of one of our conversations,
you were talking to me about the mill,
and about the bar,
and how in the city,
we had become hedonists in our young age,
and your voice was laced in disapproval,
even moreso in disdain,
But you were here just as I was,
and you kept talking,
with a false objectivity that I was starting to resent,
and with good reason,
I saw you always looking past me,
behind you,
in the smudged window,
always a horizon,
always the Fata Morgana,
So let me say it once more,
in case I was not clear the first time,
You are not better than me,
not different even,
and we dallied in this tenement together with good reason
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