Facebook, If You Please

Stephen Ruffus

I am not immune

to the pleasure received

by a sudden message

asking if I know

the old friend recalling

the day’s warmth

in the school yard,

or huddled on the street corner

under the pale hum

of a shepherd’s crook,

forgetful laughter

cradling us long

into the night.

Nor am I particularly

fearful over privacy

I wear it like gauze

spend more than enough

time dwelling on

what’s long gone

and beginning to fade,

my private communion.

As for my identity

I suspect it is, in the minds

of many, myself included,

abbreviated, particulate.

But please

unfriend me from sorrow.

Let me say now

I can no longer face

messages of sickness

and death that have befallen

those who live within memory,

let that book be written

in some other algorithm.

This I ask

so that nothing

is put to rest finally,

and so I may bear the pain

soon to come.