Dear Dwayne


Dear Dwayne,


Your screwdriver helped a lonely carpenter today.

I’ve been planting your favorite poppies in our garden.


In our garden the poppies sense the sun and they just explode.

It’s ok to just explode in prison just like it’s ok that my brother called me a “gold digger.”


“Gold digger” is a noble career, but I’m happy with a street pharmacist like you.

Being away from you this long feels like I’m catching foul balls with my tongue.


I caught a foul ball with my tongue last night then drove myself to an NA meeting.

I saw Lovell, and he is correct; crack should be renamed “broke” since we are all broke now.


We are all broke now and you are writing poems in prison.

The poem you sent was very optimistic. Autumn has just appeared out of nowhere, Dwayne.


Autumn makes me want to study the haiku. I’ve always said cold air is the engine of my grief.

The opposite of acumen is how the estheticians at the Lancôme counter laughed at me today.


They laugh at the monsters we have always been, Dwayne. I think winter finds refuge inside us.

Dear Dwayne, your screwdriver helped a lonely carpenter today.

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