My process for writing this poem was a lot of typing and deleting. I experienced a bit of a writers block on this assignment and eventually just accepted that it would be a bad poem and forced out some lines. The essence of most of my friendships over the past five years has been that of friendly bantering and criticism, so the poem has a bit of a badgering flavor at the end when I make fun of Greg for being a smug bastard, and more so for his secret enjoyment of being classified as smug.
I miss our conversations on politics and philosophy,
Sitting on the balcony smoking cheap cigars,
Arguing about matters of deep import
Like a couple of stoners.
I miss the parties we hosted in our crappy apartment,
Squeezed into a tiny kitchen to play beerpong,
Drunkenly singing “Red Solo Cup,”
And trying our best to get the cops called on us again.
I miss the infectious enthusiasm
With which you live your life,
And the poorly hidden smirk of pleasure on your face
When we’d call you a smug bastard.
I miss you buddy, and wish you the best;
No roommate, pong-partner, or friend has yet compared.