I wasn’t looking for a friend,
here in this rich man’s private garden
thrown open to the masses for a few days,
and yet I found you.
Cousin to the sea of black irises
that grew behind the white clapboard
victorian era army house where I grew up,
the ones that swayed in the wind
like drunken sailors at a beach party.
Bolder than the fire dancers on Oahu,
hairy and loose-lipped like Elvis,
they all competed for attention.
How could anyone not see them?
I guess the same way
we don’t see friends
for years and years
until we run into them
at a garden party.