here comes the mailman toting the absence of letters for me. he grins everyday. he knows i wait for him. i get my mail weeks after they're supposed to have arrived. they come in airmail envelopes doubly creased or mutilated, or crushed and then smoothed over. there are days they come postmarked a month ago, or else stamped assidiously with the clear soles of size 12 shoes.
when we chance upon each other in the hall, he turns and throws me looks that say, dear muthafucka: yer nuttin' but third-class citizen here. move to de end of de line ya gotta learn to move to de end of de line and wait. we got us work here to do, boy. and his leer i return express service: dear putanginamo rin: you're some thing i can't do anything about for now. a drop in the slopbucket still is slop. soak in it, brother. and hallelujah! love. and having met eye to eye and understood each other, we smile—hard—, say hi's that stab in the back and stagger to opposite doors.