Dookie

In junior high school, I lived in my headphones
and Billy Joe couch-surfed my head.
The lead singer of Green Day kicked a couple cans
around my cerebellum,
slept in too late,
killed every Tamagotch i I got him.

I called Mozart.
"Billy Joe's making a mess
scribbling poetry on the back of my eyelids.
He shoplifts snickers from seven-eleven,
blames it on me!"

Amadeus was the best roommate.
He never left holes in the walls.
He kept normal hours,
and even helped me study Algebra.

Billy Joe was different.
He talked back to my parents,
downloaded the Anarchist's Cookbook,
plotted the downfall of civilization.

I thought we didn't have anything in common
until I learned he couldn't talk to girls either.
We spent the rest of that summer hanging out,
reading Star Wars novels and swiping slurpees.
We became the best of friends.

Time passed, and soon my girlfriends moved in.
First Posh Spice, then Lisa Loeb.
I heard less and less from Billy Joe.

In college, short-lived indie bands and loud DJs
started crashing at my pad. They were cool.
Sophisticated.
Boring.

It's been years since I graduated.
The other day, Billy Joe left me a voicemail.
Says he needs a new roommate.
He remembers
when I was thirteen
and strung out on confusion.
And I'm beginning to remember too.