Work Text:
The only friend I recall
was a soldier called John. He had a limp
with a stick to help,
as if someone had knocked over and hurt
my poor John. I don’t know
when I met him, but there are pictures of my brother
before he died
with a young, lean soldier. I remember John
differently. Once,
I shouted at him for coming home –
just outside the door,
he deliberately stepped forward, and I warned him
in scowling, vicious tones. After that,
he didn’t come near me for days.
Sometimes, though, I’d let him stay,
and he’d help with a case or two. Then I’d snap at him,
send him back out of Baker Street
where he had no place to go
except for the other apartment which he so despised.
Finally, he withered away from me,
his brain a mess of corroded nerves. Watching him
stumble drunkenly
or crack his head against a wall,
I feared I’d knock something loose,
years before, and given him a world where facts
were dull absurdities
in death’s insurmountable logic… afterwards I decided,
when I retired and left, I’d never have another friend.