Almost the whole poem hides its subject. Sunshine, a mother's breakfast, singing birds, smiling strangers: the opening could belong to a children's story. Only in the final line does the speaker name the "best friend" as heroin. By then the reader has already followed the speaker down the road, trusted the friendship, and felt the relief of arriving. The poem's central idea is that addiction presents itself as comfort and companionship, and that the truth comes out only when the speaker is too tired to keep up the disguise.
Small cracks show in the pleasant surface from the start. "I'm in a hurry. I have to go!" is an odd way to treat a morning that has just been described so gently. The speaker walks "determined," and that one line is left alone in its own stanza, as if it were a single-minded march. Even the happy details seem slightly off. People are smiling and "everything glitters and shines," but the speaker says, "And yet I feel cool. Curious!" The cold sits uneasily next to the sunshine, and the exclamation reads like a speaker who cannot admit what the body already knows. The world looks bright while something inside is already in need.
The language of friendship does the most unsettling work. The friend "calmed me down," promises that "it is all right," and "takes away my overwhelming pain." Then comes a line that breaks the tone: "I just need some bucks to ensure I'm doing well." That blunt, slangy word cuts through the otherwise tidy diction and shows what kind of relationship this is. A real friend does not charge, and the whole bargain rests on money. The title's "new" has an edge too. This friendship is recent, and it is already running the speaker's day.
The poem uses no rhyme and no steady meter. Its lines are uneven, its stanzas range from a single line to five, and that looseness suits a mind that cannot settle. Several sentences spill across stanza breaks and restart in lower case: "and I enjoy the day too," "and immediately transforms it into endless bliss for me," "to get through the day?" These fragments feel like thoughts the speaker cannot finish or cannot stop. Pace matters as well. The speaker rushes out in the morning and walks "slowly homewards" at night, drained. The ellipses in "everything is fine... Now!" pull the same way. That little word "Now!" admits that the calm lasts only until the drug wears off.
Opposites run through the second half. "Happiness and pain," "heaven and hell," "endless bliss" and "overwhelming pain" are pairs the speaker is thrown between. The poem's questions grow more anxious as the day closes: "What if tomorrow the hell comes again?", "But what if I can't raise any more money?", "What will my best friend do to me then?" The final question is the most revealing. The speaker is no longer asking what the friend will give but what the friend will do, which is how someone speaks about a threat. "Tomorrow" is repeated until it sounds like a sentence handed down.
The ending is quietly devastating. "I hope also that soon there will be no more tomorrow... Only then will I be released." The speaker's hope is ambiguous. It might mean escape from the drug, but it also sounds like a wish for the days to stop altogether, and the poem leaves that reading open. Then comes the reveal, "Released from the heroin... My best friend on earth!" Placing "on earth" after "heaven and hell" suggests that the drug has taken over both places. It is the speaker's bliss and the speaker's torment, and also the only companion they feel they have.
The poem matters because it shows dependence from the inside without lecturing. It never says that drugs are dangerous. It lets the reader share the speaker's morning optimism, then makes that optimism feel like a trick. The day's circular shape, with a hopeful departure, a brief relief, and a dread of tomorrow, mirrors the trap itself. The simple, almost naive language adds to the effect, because a plain voice describing something terrible can be harder to bear than an elaborate one.