Be My Friend

by Robert Murray

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              Where the tongue slips it speaks the truth.
                                                                —Irish proverb

I don’t recall precisely where you said it,
which rolling or roiling Orange County beach,

whether the weather was perfect or breeze
blowing like the dickens or the ‘divil’

when out it popped like a dolphin head.
“Special unconscious blunder,” as Freud would have it,

and maybe Jung too, but I would have it as divine treasure
from the underwater underworld, the place where

Be my guest was transformed into Be my friend
in a momentary lapse of tripped-up surf-dare

that soaked us both to the ass in a frothing high tide,
one that Dom Perignon’s crème de la cream couldn’t hold

a searchlight to. And chuckle and chortle we did,
like an overserved couple of belly-busting one-legged pirates

sans sea legs, except it was 9 a.m. on less than a half cup
of french roast with half and half. And still I celebrate

the lusty onshore breeze of our billowing friendship,
which I never imagined could compare with us as lovers

but does. Freud wanted it all to be about sex,
and most men would agree, but this man right now loves

what I’m learning from you, Angel, about closeness
and closer-ness and feeling and saying. And since

we both know I have so much more to learn,
and you have so much more to give—please,

my love, keep teaching, feeling
and saying, Be my friend!


end of story

© 2021, Robert Murray Also by Robert Murray