I call you my friend,

Mr. Python,

Because in this peculiar place,

There is nothing

Less that I could call you that would be

Fitting for the number of words

That we have exchanged. But how many

Words have I meant, among those

That I have said?

Maybe half. If I am what they call

Honest, possibly more – but certainly

Not all.

The sparing way you sometimes spend

Your words makes me wonder if too

Many of mine might cause you to

Plunge into some sort of overloaded

Ache – a state I know I couldn’t

Possibly fix – one that could only

Be healed by one of those dusty

Aged chaps in musty cellars, who

Very often comfort the crying of

Bumped-up little boys through a nod

Atop a face that says, ‘I know.

If I had my way, Mr. Python,

We wouldn’t speak at all…

We would just sit here, in the middle

Of this vacant room

Filled with the people

You call your friends, and you would

Press your cold head against mine, until I

Shared your familiar, quiet beat;

And just nod. And know.

Do you enjoy reading the Nass?

Please consider donating a small amount to help support independent journalism at Princeton and whitelist our site.