LONG LOST PALS, by Brad King

King lives and writes in Nashville.


long lost pals:
here’s how they roll.

they will call you up right
out of the blue, on a Tuesday
morning at 5 a.m., and
before you can breathe,
they’ll have
oodles of exciting
developments to report.

all they required was a little
time and distance away
from you, and their lives
transformed from uneventful,
at best, into
underwear parties with
fine young girls and in-ground
pools and 10-lb. bass in
sprawling new reservoirs of
crystalline supremacy on
acres of land.

although you’re terribly skeptical, a
trip will be arranged as to
witness for yourself the
newfound paradise of
long lost pals, these
grandiose lives assembled
like swing sets or timeless
sculptures while
no one is looking, and
here’s the reality:

one overweight girlfriend, one
rug rat from wedlock;
an above-ground pool inflated with
air –
it’s rubber and intriguing since
you never really knew
such pools existed; one
doublewide trailer, and a catfish
mudhole drying in the
yard with frogs and turtles and
billions of neurotic and soon-to-be
homeless water skimmers.

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