from the radio like leapers on 9-11.
A shooting, a hit-and-run, a random
beating, or a frigid death from exposure
on a park bench each send me punching
the keys of my near-monthly hope text.
Hi. All OK? Your Dad.
Just the other day, my speakers blared
news of a drowning. A man and his wife
tried to swim across the Willamette clear
to Ross Island. A boater heard screams.
It can’t be him. He’s not married.
I don’t think.
RAIN Magazine - 2015