My best friend gave me the truth, his age when I asked, thirty-two, in his dark brown leather jacket.
First and last time I ever asked that question, all dressed in white, sunny day of first communion.
Slight hesitation before he spilled the beans, knowing the truth couldn’t hurt, and didn’t.
Still have pictures from that day, a sunny day, back in the nineteen fifties, Saint Michaels Church.

My best friend gave me an education, My Fair Lady, when he realized that I had a little impediment.
Taught me the value of pronunciation, importance of being understood, by those who valued that.
The idea of confidence in myself, faced with others who were confident as well, held my head high.
The Rain in Spain, how to speak in song, it all seemed long, I had been wrong, and I got it.

Music, from Ma’s pots and pans came a rhythm, a clamoring she didn’t mind, the kitchen floor.
My best friend, and the Polka Dots, big band, big drums, then I knew, knew the real sound.
Gave me exposure to all the right things, from all the right places, people.

My best friend gave me rope, fifty feet of half inch, “I want to climb” and so I did.
Gave me the tools, set me free, on my own, I turned into me!

My best friend, my dad, I miss him so much, in the end, I am just like him.