I gave Alex my ruined piano. He kept it on his porch,where rain warped its boards.                                                                        On hot daysI’d play tinny ragtime while Alex smoked and drankand complained about women.                                                                        The pink sun,like a fat corpse head,                                                              hovered over black pines.+Once, a kitten crawled into his truck’s engine.He didn’t know it                                                                                    until he turned the ignition.It was too late, then                                               for the kitten.Goddamn,                        Alex said. But the sound didn’t bother himthe way it bothered me—+I was trying to write a book of poems                                                                                           but it was goingbadly. Get a fucking job,                                                               said Alex. Then you’ll havesomething to write about,                                                                you fucking university faggot.He was laughing+                                                                so I knew he loved me.Alex had written a great memoir years ago.                                                                                                           I read ittwice: a young manraised by bikers and lunatics                                                                         who discovers his ownhumanity.   Fragility.                                                                 I was never really sure.+first, the catching of the truck’s ignition,                                                                                                            then the shriek—+In the piano’s brain,                                                             the little hammers pounded,looking for the perfect thought. But the thought wouldn’t come.It kept losing its way                                                              among the strings—+That was years ago. Alex drank himselfinto oblivion in Texas                                                            and was never heard from again—or Alex called and called,                                                                 deep in his own black drunkness,and I stopped answering—+though I’m making good use of him now,                                                                                                  in this poem aboutthe futility of memory                                                           and the passage of time,having read his memoirabout a boy                                        trying to find his way alone, a boywhose best friend                                                    finally, in the uncomfortable suburbs,betrays him—+Something about youthful pain                                                                                   that unites us,literature requiring of us empathy—+Get a fucking job                                                you condescending asshole, says Alexfrom that porch years ago, chair tipped back against the wall,out of liquor                                       smiling into the fat sunset.+The kitten in the engine,                                                     asleep all day beside the fanbelt—There’s the history of a friendship for you—+Anyway, the last time he called, he wanted money,and I told him,                                        Your timing’s not great man, and he said,You’ve made it, you’ve gotta look out for your people,and I’m good for it, I’ll get you back.                                                                                        and I said,OK, don’t worry about it, man,                                                                          and I sent him a check,and then                       I stopped answering the phone+Bourbon’s on me,                                        he said smiling, walkingdrunk to his truck.                                                 On me, on me, he sang,waggling his hands as if he, too, were playing a piano,and laughing.+                                          Then he climbed into his truckand started it up.