bought me cigarettes

my friend’s taken my baseball cap 

and torn my favorite jeans. 

he makes noises during the night. 

mom says he needs an extra shower 

on hot summer days. 

most nights we stay awake, talking about girls 

and hipster neighborhoods we’d like to live in. 

then we smoke cigarettes i’ve stolen from dad. 

but one day during summer camp 

mom and dad painted my room, 

replaced the furniture, 

said i had outgrown it – 

asked if i liked the new closets. 

that night i stayed up waiting for my buddy. 

maybe he’d hidden in the laundry hamper, 

found a little hideaway, holed up back in the shed. 

i was a grown-up kid now, that’s what they said, 

so dad showed me how to shave. took me 

shopping, got me new pants and shirts 

and cigarettes. 

but there’s days now i look around 

in my grown-up room before i leave for work, 

check back on my school books, 

think of the girls i loved and never got to date, 

and also of my long-gone friend, the old me, 

the one that was made to leave so i could stay. 

but i am the one that’s become a stranger.