Without an Obvious, Reasonable Explanation

So I’ve texted Michael three times

asking if he wants to go to Applebee’s

this Friday evening, as we’ve done

every weekend for the past few months,

getting hammered on overpriced, diluted

margaritas and hitting on the waitresses,

and I’ve gotten a total of zero responses,

so the fact of the matter must be

that I’m under investigation by the

Department of Homeland Security,

and Michael is under mandate

not to speak to me until they figure out

if I’ve actually done something wrong,

and the answer, to be honest, is probably

that I have. Probably, ISIS got into

my bank account to funnel my eighty-six

dollars and twenty-four cents into Damascus.

Probably, I followed some email link,

probably one with a subject line like

“Fluffy Puppies to Get You Through Hard Times”

and added myself to the mailing list

for the Taliban or joined a Facebook

group of Russian Oligarchs. Probably,

the first website that came up when I Googled,

“Why does everyone l care about end up

disappearing from my life without an obvious,

reasonable explanation?” was faulty and

sent a request to the Wagner Group, though

every other time I’ve clicked the purple link,

nothing happened. Probably, Michael

is in some secret holding facility in Cuba,

being waterboarded until he tells them whatever

it is they want to hear, and that’s why

he’s not responding to my question

about Applebee’s on Friday. Probably, I’ll never

learn what’s become of him. Probably,

he will starve, crumple under a Caribbean

sun, his body tossed into some ditch

without ceremony, his name expunged

from every record, and certainly, it will be

my fault because, God damn it, how the hell

would I know if I happened to sell nuclear missiles

to North Korea? Anything is possible!