I always practiced writing, even when I sucked (an arguable point in time that may still exist). When I wasn’t practicing with fiction, which was too often, I made a point of turning everything else into a writing project.
Years ago I wrote an email to a loved one who was far away. I liked it a lot and a year after writing it I made it into this prose poem. I go to it every so often and change this word or that word. It’s finished now so here it is. If you feel so inclined please share it using the social media tools below.
Took the subway this Thursday instead of driving. Wanted to avoid the traffic and nasty weather outside (the day’s snowstorm would’ve blinded me on the road). Got there, and I saw this obnoxiously loud group on my uptown ride on the E train. They got on at Continental Avenue, and were talking in that language/code that I could never decipher. As they looked at the subway map they laughed, they smiled, and they exchanged glances that betrayed some shared knowledge – some inside joke. Filled with paranoia I found myself looking at their teeth, all off colored and stained. Some had gray teeth; one had an odd, dark splotch on his left pre-molar; another one had large spaces between his dirty whites that indicated they were shrinking from rot. The scene made me think of you, and I thought, “If Stacey were here she could tell me what these guys are saying. She could explain what was happening – why everything seemed so wrong.” You’re not here though, and you can’t tell me anything.