Dear Ellen E.
you asked for words to fill the cracks
(protect your back) and slide into the booth beside you–
hamburger and fries
I saved some words without definition (am sending
them on) without recollection of what they are
except words--like excess shoes
lost in the closet down that dark hallway where
we never talk. no, never talk.
really, shouldn’t flowers and gray walls be enough?
there is that comfort zone. coal chutes, milk boxes
and socks hopping through foreign mud.
temper-tantrum mantras, a street light burning,
encoded with falling snow, the epistle
of our hands touching on a maple table
just as the sun leaps across. it’s the void which hurts
you, burns words into meaningless stumps.