For fun
Here's another of my poems, this one previously published in About Such Things, spring 1997 issue.

Gilbert

My friend Gilbert
had the kind of face
you'd see on milk cartons
on rainy Thursday mornings
that puddle in your brain
without a grain of sense
or purpose but dripdrip drip.

Gil played games
that brought down bullies
to less than larger-than-life
lugs we could look in the eye
and not cringe.

Gil's games
made emperors of roaches
and elf queens of
bucktoothed, freckled girls
that are good at math
and can't sing.

Gil thought thoughts
that entered me like
garlic and permeated blood
and lungs and skin,
reeking and lusty of life,
lingering in the pores
for days.

copyright L. J. Webster, 1997