My Friend Billby Ben NardolilliI let him mourn too long, It was my mistake, I thought I would be generous, Understanding, forgiving, By not letting him forget so easily. They all told him To move on and find another I felt I was the only one Who understood, That there would be no other Like her, for him. So I said to Bill it was okay, Okay to feel sorry and to cry, If he wanted to stay alone, Sleep in and not go out, Fine by me, I understood. He stayed indoors all day, Leaving with a bottle in his hand Of something strong-smelling Medicinal and with a flame inside, All he can do to make The pain surrender before him. I told him that it was now time To stop his mourning, But he said the dirge was still playing The ladies of his mental house Were still screaming And Bill had only just begun To try and tame them to silence. |
Ben Nardolilli is a 25-year-old writer currently living in Montclair, New Jersey. His work has appeared in The Houston Literary Review, Perigee, Canopic Jar, One Ghana One Voice, Baker’s Dozen, Thieves Jargon, Quail Bell Magazine, elimae, Poems Niederngasse, Gold Dust, Scythe, Anemone Sidecar, The Delmarva Review, Contemporary American Voices, SoMa Literary Review, Gloom Cupboard, Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue, Black Words on White Paper, Cantaraville, and Mad Swirl. He is looking to publish his first novel. Read more of Nardolilli's work on his blog.