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Postmodern Village
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(How to) Unfriend
by Wortburgher Gose

My unfriend lurks
at the Taco Bell behind
the area behind the counter,
smelling me above the salsa
and the pre-powdered guac.

The unfriend is always,
mysteriously, on the other side
of the bookshelf, at the used place
ogling Harleys
in a book of pictures.

Loud whispers
excise staccato porno
from the smartphone
of my unfriend.

You can only think this
in short bursts
between the green and the glorious
texts, obliquely
referencing my unfriend.

My unfriend materializes
again, inconsistently
under the recessed lighting
of a Holiday Inn, Conference
Room B, in Akron,
eating pretzels.

On the report I’m lazily
reading in preparation for
the internal report on the art’s
state, that will remain
unread, as fourth author:
my unfriend’s name.

My wife mentions my ex-
wife’s name, in a way I never
did, directly, fearlessly,
like the shadow over a picnic
cast by the sudden appearance
of my unfriend.

On the brick street distorted
from the patio bar, between
the heads of bottleblondes,
redolent of spilled beer,
the laugh of my unfriend.

We have succeeded
in rendering danger obsolete:
behind the curtain airbags,
on the other side of Facebook,
posting, in a poor-quality
flick of noise, yet

so close you can taste
the morning breath,
your unfriend
stares back.