published June 18, 2001
written by Daniel Wolff / New York
illustrated by Vasus Das / New York

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Dear Frankie:

      Just a quick note to say

I'm glad we actually spoke, if only briefly.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there is a way

for old lovers to be friends.

      I've been doing a lot of walking, lately.

Down by the docks where the ships used to be,

in the allies behind the stores.

Places only truckers and whores

ever see. What doesn't count, what isn't pretty.

      And I end up on my knees

before it! In the dead-rot and disease,

I seize on this or that scrap of sensation

because ... because I need a reason,

Frankie.

Because I need to believe it began

somewhere in order to believe it can end.

      Just like a man,

huh? I need to lay the blame.

      I don't mean to say that "Life goes on."

Over the porn

shops, in the places no

one cares about, lovers beat each other; dead kids are born.

But in the morning, when I stumble into work,

I look at my co-workers (who look like me),

and I think, "Those people are the experts. These people don't know.

If we lived in a true democracy ...."

      I'm ashamed

to go on. Especially to you, especially after this.

      I know it sounds bad,

but I wish

I had

your hurt.

                                                                                                    JOHN

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