On Being a Poor Friend

Sometimes, I'm not a good one.

When she tells me how rough her life is,
I sometimes stop listening,
or if holding a drink,
I'll drink it deeply,
hoping she'll catch the gesture, and not mistake
for solemn camaraderie.
Lately I just stare off,
as drinking neither health nor money
will allow.
She takes her ability to find specific evil
hiding in everything
to be efficient; constantly whittling, maybe improving,
or some such dramatic bullshit.
And phrases like "pay in blood,"
and "life-sentence."
I exhale deeply into myself,
come up with nothing.
I let her talk.