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JIMMY'S FATHER

When I was young
I would go over
to Jimmy's house.
I went again
years later and
I was busy
all afternoon
finding the street
where Jimmy lived.
Jimmy's father
opened the door
and shook my hand.
He hadn't changed.
He told me he
was Jimmy and he
(Jimmy's father)
was dead. Had been
for years. For years.
He wasn't Jimmy.
Jimmy would know.
He wouldn't sit
and lie about
the things we did;
about the things
I knew we didn't
and couldn't do.
Jimmy's father
wouldn't tell me
where Jimmy lived.
He kept talking
about himself.