in a letter to a friend,
never written, never
said, sad, it is impossible.

to explain. there will be khama,
guilt, ridden over mountains,
over years. tis tough is guilt.

the back bedroom, hankies
folded ready, in every room,
in pockets now gone musty.

the pottery is dusty.
i have another life.

i have a new letter.

sbm.