To a friend, in answer to his existential crises

You ask me, I imagine,
over a strong cup
of Turkish coffee
in that way that is both abrupt
for the sake of it
and shocking for the sake of it
and vague in that way that makes me
grit my teeth like there's a toothpick in the middle and I just can't,
no I can't

let

go.
So you shock,
just to put shock to your name and
fold in a hundred thousand
potential answers and
you're not looking at my face but
looking for me to say
that I hate, too,
the sugar packet
in my hand and
I'm thinking that maybe you hate me
for not taking

my coffee

black.
And meanwhile you've
smoked through your last
hand-rolled cigarette.
So when you ask me,
in that way you have through

thin eyes and

tight lips and

ears closed
against me through a fog of semi-organic carcinogens,
I know
and you know
and the whole goddamn world knows
how wonderful that
unwashed
and unseen
and untold
corner of your mind is
that asks such kaleidoscopic questions.