Friend

Sang froid is in the literal grave installed
The dust you attempt to shake off is never there,
Unless the spittle dried on hated-face on hated-wall
Can freshly mount the deceptive air

Will you remember, my all-too-unbrief friend?
Will my hard-wrung words work a sinew to bend?
Will saints in swift succession abide, measured in grace
Along abscissa to a none-too-holy sticking place?

"Don't press the Bard in my face!"; guttural
Yet less of the gutter
More unto platitudes
And slight-salted butter.