Arthur, old friend,
I love you like a brother
whose birthday I don’t bother to celebrate.
I have known you since the beginning of days
or at least since we first needed condoms.
Since you needed condoms.

We have great history.
We have great affection.
I have great respect for you
but I cannot
for the life of me
understand why you opted
to move to Houston
last month.

In a way, I get it.
I understand that LA
might prove too much for the man
and I could imagine how you’d
see the appeal of flyover states
with their low prices
and their great barbecue
but Texas?
Don’t mess with it.
And Houston?
For lowercase g god’s sake
they can’t even pronounce it right!

I wish you’d consulted with me
before your made this huge life choice.
I could have given you sage advice
and offered you access to my hovel
In the Bronx
before you did anything too hasty.
I wish you’d considered the options
and had anticipated the slight possibility
that you might end up in a once in a lifetime storm
– a perfect one, perhaps –
that could leave you up to your neck
in debt
and sewage.
I’m not judging.
I’m not shaming.
I just wish…
dammit, Arthur, why Houston?