Postcard


Jimmy, it is snowing in Pittsburgh. I drove across my second favorite bridge this morning—the Andy Warhol, which spans the Allegheny and is painted yellow, the yellow of Heinz Yellow Mustard. I thought of you in Cleveland. And I wish it were summer, but instead it is April and snowing and you are in Cleveland wrapping fish downtown and reading biomedical ethics. I don’t have to tell you why I thought of you on the bridge. When was it built? 1928? But I will tell you—if I drove north enough, and then west enough, I would be in Ohio, which is both next to Pennsylvania and where you live. I thought about this for two and a half hours. I did. Stopped the car—a white Jeep Cherokee, America!—in the middle of that bridge and thought about the space where two states fuse. But it was snowing and so cold and I was late for something. In those waters swirling below was both darkness and light. So how are you? Fierce Aquarius, is your Mercury rising? Enclosed is a kayak. Sail it east some time. I will meet you at the border.

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