Got a call yesterday
from an old friend Shelly
whom I first met
years ago
when her estranged husband
broke in
and beat her senseless
with brass knuckles
while their little boy watched
from the hallway

Later I learned
that at the time
there was another man
under the bed
which makes the story juicier
but no less awful

I'd run into her again
from time to time
over the years

Like drunk at the bike rodeo
showing her tits
and having a very good time

Or bar-tending
in a small town honkytonk
filled with frat boys,
sheriff's deputies
and huge rum and cokes

It was always good to see her
because though life wasn't great
she got by
as good as anyone else

So it surprised me
the telephone call
since we hadn't talked
for awhile

Then she told me
about the cancer
in her brain
and how afraid she was
that the ex husband
would get the kids
and waste the money
on methamphetamine

Which got me thinking
about changing lives
and brass knuckles
and the absence of purpose
in the universe