PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

“Friendship,” he muffled while he stuffed the last of the burrito in his mouth, “it’s a one way street.”
It was of no consequence, we were lost, in the middle of La Paz.  Between the sounds of tourism and American pop songs blasting through the speakers of Fritz, the burrito was probably the closest to Mexico we’d ever been.
“Look, I’m not saying you’re a criminal, but what did you expect?”
I look down at the blood coming down my leg and I’m thinking, is his voice muffled by the burrito or is there something stuck in my ear and it was getting dark and hard to think anyway so I decided to not respond.
We pause for a moment as we both look at each other, at the steak knife in John’s hand under the table, still stuck deep inside my body, at the passerbabies, who come here for the paradise we’ve decided to avoid and we smirk.
“You know, dude, I’m not saying I’m proud of you, and even though we’re both in our thirties now, I feel like I should be.”
“Like a father-figure?”  I ask and put more pressure on the wound.
Yeah, something like that.  I’ve never really had a father though – you?
Well I’ve seen them in movies, I tell him and the waiter comes over and pours more water into the glass.  
For some strange reason even though the ocean Is only a few meters away, there are no mosquitos here.  I ask Gabe about this and he says it’s probably something do with freshwater or whatever.  
“I remember fishing with my step brother when I was thirteen back in Missouri, we caught this big ass bass man, and when we were getting the hook out, the hands slipped and the hook went straight through my finger, but the mosquito bites, they still hurt more.”
Even when you pulled it out?
“Well, we couldn’t pull it out, it was one of those, uh, you know, barbed hooks with three ends to it and it went all the way through and back out.  Once the endorphins kicked in, we tried to just rip it off but we ended up going to the hospital anyway.  He ended up serving on a boat in Korea or something doing heroin, last I heard.  You’re gonna finish those chips dude?”
“I don’t know Gabe,” I say as I look at the sky.  Trying to think, I’m still thinking sitting here bleeding out of my gut is not the best plan for me at the moment.  Trying not to think, I’m thinking maybe I’m not getting up because in a way, it is a one way street and I deserve it.  The endorphins and the booze are working, but physical pain was never my weak point anyway.  
“A pound of flesh, man.”  I mumble.  
Gabe doesn’t respond but takes his hand off the knife, grabs the the chips and munches on them.  I can barely hear the cracking of the chips in his mouth and the sun is so low, the city lights mask the smiles on the tourist faces as they stroll along the Malecon.  
I squint my eyes hard, like I’m trying to look at one of the far away boats, except I’m staring into Gabe and without thinking, without really having any idea as to which street either one of us is on, or which direction the traffic is going anymore cause this city, it sucked all of those thoughts dry even before any of this happened, I look at Gabe and I pull hard on the knife until there’s only a hole left.