I guess you didn't get my letter, since you
died before I put it in the mail.
But maybe that's OK—I mean, what
was left to say anyway? Confession (I never
enjoyed hunting, or peeing in public)?
Are you proud of me? Will I see you again?
I'm taking a class on how to be less of a man.
It involves a lot of poetry, and crying.
I remember you saying,
“I'll give you something to cry about,”
and now, finally, you have.