Poem in Which I Address My Friend Tony

Even as a child your mother
told me you used to fold the
things you didn’t like inside
a chest. To me, you look like
Rick Moranis from that film
you haven’t seen, even though you
don’t wear glasses and you smell
like a fork. You’re always clean
with a reflective surface, and when
I kiss you, you taste like a glass
of milk. Every time I look at you
I see the same guy that I met
in that coffee shop two years ago,
grip on the handle of his coffee cup
a little too tight. The whites of your
knuckles are still naked to me.

Emma Jeremy