Loyalty And Betrayal
He drank with the men
who would later deny knowing his name.
That is the way of the world.
A man learns it slowly,
like learning winter from the sea.
There were nights of bread and cheap wine,
hands on shoulders,
promises spoken low as prayers.
They called him brother,
And she was their sister
They meant it then.
Or maybe they only meant the warmth,
the full glass,
the use of him.
Loyalty is quiet.
It does not pound its chest.
It stays when the room grows cold
and the money is gone.
Betrayal speaks more.
It laughs too loudly.
It explains itself.
A good dog knows his master.
A good man knows his friends
by how they leave.
One left over fear.
One for money.
One because crowds are easier
than conscience.
The betrayed man said little about it.
There is no poetry in begging people to stay.
A man keeps moving.
He fishes.
He lights another cigarette.
He watches the dark water
and understands something at last:
that loyalty is rarer than courage,
and betrayal comes easiest
to those already weak inside.
Still, he poured another drink
for the next stranger who sat beside him.
Because even after betrayal,
a man must live
as though loyalty still exists somewhere
in this tired world.
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