Nobody who is not dead

Wants to be called dead

Understandably

But I heard an old friend died

Though I don’t know

If it is true or not

For the person who told me

Gives tongue massages

This person, the dead, was older

Yet perhaps my first real friend

He saved me and surfaced me

He helped define “good” and “man”

And he risked and dared

That was his thing

And though some only saw him

As a greasy street kid

I was very honored

That he liked me

And I know that

He saw me