No one else called you Lester. No one knows
I broke your typewriter
save you. No one will call me
Esther now. I see the jumbled mass
of timber holding up the Grain Belt
billboard sign. It doesn’t change
even when the river below breaks
open mid-sigh after months
of rigid silence.
Cross out drunk—
write down sick.
This city turns a green
we tried to dye that windbreaker.
Remember the stranger who left it
on your veranda above the cobbler’s shop.
Nothing is wasted
in this world—is a lie.
He’s got to work. The banging has stopped
for you. For me, I’m left holding
jokes no one else gets—inside out.