A bad friend is like late capitalism

I agreed
to walk
your snake-dog
because I was
distracted
by the dollar sign
shadows
your fake
eyelashes made
on your stack
of back issues
of Architectural Digest,
1986.
Then I ignored
my cat
that you
decapitated,
rotting on your
designer seaweed
kitchen floor,
next to your
live cat
napping
in a basket
in the sun.
I also ignored
what you said
when I begged
to borrow bus fare:
that the fare
was the prayers
of grandmothers
for granddaughters
yet to be born
in countries
yet to be
discovered.
Believing you,
though confused,
I trudged home
in the cold,
blinded
by the setting sun
the color
of your
sunset Bellini.
And now
that I’m
here
it’s clear
that you are
my home
and everything
in it, including
the food,
the dust,
and the smell
of the wet
cement
basement.
Even the
furniture
murmurs:
“I am beloved,
and you are
liminal drift,
an insufficient
breakfast.”

I’ve lived here
seven years.
How did I
only just
notice?