I happened to be speaking with some colleagues

when certain revelations disentangled…

Fuck it. You’re a flake, 

a casualty and a liar.

Telling them one thing, us another, 

preying on our sympathies and long hours

while you party and get tested for gonorrhea. 

You fail our clients, screw me over, and not 

even for fragility’s sake. Fragile, you are,

but I’d granted you the unearned credit

of presumably not playing us. Fuck me.

I thought we were friends, work aside. We’re not.

And, truth is, I’m not even good enough for enmity.

While you lounge over your face in a still pond,

I’m just as well a petal 

in an eddy 

at periphery.

And none of my compassion—not even a lucky gust—

could jar your focus from yourself.

But I’ve been patient all along. I’ll wait.

The boss will have us for review, alone.

You have until then.

You have my courtesy—not trust—

kindness—not friendship—

and hunger. The minute that door shuts,

I’m a storyteller with shreds of you in my teeth.