Means you did not mean to shoot,
at least not me, so why should I

complain that you mistook me
for the enemy. An honest slip,

that’s all. We were as close
as brothers. Rest safe. I’m not

about to make a fuss. Of course
you would have spared me

had you only known, but 
it was dark and noisy. Come,

shake my hand, old man, before
I die from your too perfect aim.

It could have been you bleeding 
here, my bullet in your gut.

Just know that all’s forgiven.
In the end, what are friends for?

Philip Wexler

lives in Bethesda, Maryland, where he works for the federal government. More than 130 of his poems have been published in magazines over the years, and he has organized several spoken-word series in Maryland. He also works in mosaic arts.

More on the Web: By, About, and Beyond

⚡ A Proposition, a poem by Wexler in Slab Sound and Literary Art Book (Issue 6)