Rob S. Friedman
February 2024
Right Turn
We were little boys failing at knot-tying and dropping flies. Few spoken words between us nerdy and invisible kids, who later adopted
Hunter S. Thompson as God before rebellion ended and we slid off into grey. Now the gun you carry lurks like a subtle dormant threat
and makes me doubt memories of our tacit, enduring bond, our shared recollections, and leaves me without a way back to you, to us, just lost.
There are no marksman badges in either of our attics. Maybe an outfielder’s glove. Were there ever talismans of half hitches and square knots?
Rob S. Friedman 