He talks about the weather, and they see
The climate in their minds--painstakingly
Another might have tried his oratory
And never had the same effect or story.
His fans range far and wide, and I'm a kind
Uncommon in his entourage--a friend.
For him I do not lust, and never pined
At night for here his foolish way to wend.
I worry for the boy--he has no joy.
He's cut off from the world, dares not to toy
With his emotions---well, what can you do?
He's like my little brother, with one catch--
Though family members get each other through,
our friendship seems a real fair-weather match.
What business do I have to interfere?
None have the right to give commands, to steer
The lives of independent homie g's.
But sometimes, does he need my expertise?
And don't I need a friend instead of what
I have before me--one self-serving mouth
While entertaining, smart, wry--all of that--
He bores me worse than any in the South.
This is my fault, of course. He will talk shop
With members of his clubs 'till I say "Stop!"
But too much bitching--all I've done this year...
And that's just when I talk--I do not matter,
It's my survival skill, but now I fear
This attitude my self-esteem will shatter.
So on he plods. My friends ignore my voice
When he's a thing to say--and it's not nice!
But I won't talk. And he's a storyteller.
Between us, he's the entertaining fellow.
And it's not fair--we're not just two, we're three,
Or five, with friends along who farm his trove
Of tales and knowledge, and they hardly see
the other limerick author, the odd glove,
the omnipresent shadow at CK's--
the girl remembered dimly in the haze.
I think I'm jealous. He's beloved, wise,
enchanting, charming, bitter, sad, and sweet.
And deep within my throat I empathize,
but hate him for that love he will not keep.