Our friend Em comes by this evening
and is talking too much again,
her small body a cello of nerves,

offering stories
like someone just stolen a car.
The Socratic Method and its applications
to bitcoin seductions
and the feminist interpretation
of Madonna’s recent collapse.

It’s a good thing we love her.
Unloved, she is a drinking game.
Loved means we're patient.

Eventually she puts on the brakes
as the air stills to molecule.
It is exorcised, this devil,
for tonight at least.
She accepts the offer of a blanket
when the sun goes down,

gets quiet
and takes the time to pet the dog,
slowly telling us a story
of the dog she had as a child.
His name was Bo.
He died of bloat.
She misses him.