Forgive me, but I will not be your friend
on Facebook. Even though you somehow found me,
I’ve clicked Ignore. I’m sorry. That’s the end.
I’m firm in this refusal to extend
the circle of acquaintances around me.
Forgive me that I will not be your friend.
I understand the gesture you intend,
and yet however lightly or profoundly
our lives have intersected, I must end
things here before eternal ripples blend
our separate histories on common ground. We
are not related. You are not my friend.
Your photos, the opinions you defend,
your escapades and preferences astound me.
Who are you anyway? This has to end.
I’m certain nothing vital will depend
on simply multiplying how renowned we
think we are. The friend of every friend
is not my friend. That’s you. And that’s the end.
Her Former Fat Self Speaks
The clothes she’s wearing now are hers, not mine.
But nothing’s bagged yet for the D.A.V.
She’s practical. I take that as a sign
that she’s a long way from forgetting me.
God knows I put up a terrific fight
against the slow erosion I endured
for months. She checked the mirror day and night,
the history between us oddly blurred.
The image she admires is youthful, svelte.
She claims to love the loveliness within,
yet loved us more when flesh began to melt,
as though our very nature were a sin.
I’m gone. For now. There’s nothing to forgive.
But we both know she has to eat to live.
Long a poet of the LIGHT persuasion, Barbara Loots has published work in Light, Light & Bawdy, and The Random House Anthology of Light Verse. Not to mention thousands of Hallmark cards.