South of Market. Urine-smelling streets, green rusty overpasses, cardboard boxes stacked into a makeshift hut. As I walk by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire, a loose pile of handwritten papers catches my eye. They flutter randomly in the breeze. I stop and sort the pages.
I consider the unanswerables, and I contemplate how terrible we all really are to each other.
I walk back to my ivory-tower office, the October fog threatening to turn to rain.
I’ve watched him write.
He feigns indiference as he jocks it up with the homeboys
Domino’s Drowned out the pain
for awhile.
He takes a while for each sentence. reads it back to himself
next time will be different.
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JOHN
i MISS YOU
lOVE
dAD
Good lord, love is a beautiful thing.