He’s my pop-cultured brother
from a different mother
and father, my
transatlantic Nordic God
of all things relevant
to our mutual development
as well-informed adult
 homosexual men.
He’s my politically-informed
citizen of the world,
left of left of left of center,
more qualified to serve
than my own state’s senator,
crushing any fears
that I’m the only one to have
mmmboped myself to sleep
next to pillows that,
in the glow of high definition television screens,
smell like the golden boy of
the golden age of boybands.
He’s my entertainment weekly,
my rolling stone,
my paparazzi partner, us,
the handsome leads
hiding in Hollywood-suburbia bushes
if time and geography
had made us neighbors,
surely best friends
waiting past sundown,
screaming like girls
for a glimpse of the latest
Prince of California.

© Bryan Borland