FRIEND OF A FRIEND

The sand is naturally pixelated
Your feet, when you dig them in, are artifacts
Your face, propped up by the coast, is bright and above the shoulder
Where did you buy your sunglasses?
There is a store where you can buy sunglasses that were left on a coffee table
At your friend’s mom’s house
A true story is that I found my boots in the trash by the street

How many friends do you have whose names I don’t know?
Would they remember my name if you told them?
Or do I have to do it
Is it ok if I call them a friend of a friend?

Why is a great deal so attractive?
What makes people think they can open a store that sells just blinds and survive?
Somewhere the answer is written on a piece of paper in one of your friends’ pockets
But I don’t know them well enough to reach in and fumble around for evidence
A friend of a friend is not a pocket friend
Your towel, when hanging on your left shoulder, is analog

poetrylandfill
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