Nabbed a new leaf and started over, this time writing the letter to the world.

Changing the names, expanding where I couldn’t in the letter, and withholding the personal responses I’d written specifically to V.

But otherwise the sun finally up us tandeming each tarpful into J’s pickup to transpo down to the main house finally understanding why the work we’d done building out the drying room in J’s extra garage insulating the doors hanging the fishing line mounting the dehumidifiers how these flowers had needed all that wetness that moisture that muck to get as fat as full as we’d gotten em but if they were to make it fulfill their role hit the shelves the game was now wind-flow breath-flow airing these bitches out—

Same exact voice sitting on J’s pickup’s flatbed’s edge holding down the top of the tallest pile like it was a loyal dog I was reminding to stay put, that we were in transit, that this downhill was steep—

Same exact sharing-intention J trampling those guys that’d gotten overwhelmed by the moisture subsumed by the muck were scattered all over decapitated spines broke soaked brownish with which I wrote my letter to V.

6

CANE GUY

Spring Equinox Eve 2019

I caught roomie bae in transit out on our stoop one day.

Me chain-smoking doing fuck all; she on her way to her second nannying gig of the day.

Tryna squeeze herself and her bike through the front door while also getting the door, all oblivious.

“Oh. Hey,” she said, seeing me. “Spring Equinox hang at the new gals’ spot out in West tonight. Come through.”

“Yeah?” I said. “Sure I’d be welcome?”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes like Yea-ah. Clipped her helmet’s clip.

“Stop being silly. Starts at 6.”

I was at a weird, intermediate spot with my hip.

Unable to exert it fully—to bike, say—but no longer really in need of my cane.

Still carrying it around for the novelty, the martyr flex, the stray steep ’cline.

But catching myself setting it down and almost forgetting it places.

Last Saturday night I’d left it at self-checkout at the Fresh Grocer, while pit-stopping there for a $1, day-old pizza slice with N—he’d wanted to hit a real spot, but I’d insisted on the Fresh Grocer since I was still too broke to eat out.

We’d wandered off, walking and talking, to the Schuylkill damn near by the time I realized.

Almost 1 a.m. by the time we got back.

Soon as I walked into the Fresh Grocer, either legitimately limping or affecting one in case I’d need it for lost-and-found evidence, the Fresh Grocer lady saw me and smirked.

Like This muhfucker.

This fkn guy.

Cane guy.

She procured it from behind the employee counter, where she’d hung it for me, before I could even ask.