(Interrupted) Poem About Missing An Old Friend

It’s a rainy Seattle

It’s eight bucks a hit

It’ll take you to market

And fuck with your shit

By a stinky ass ocean

Our mussels are brined

In what, I don’t know and

I don’t want to find out

Then the paper hits hard

And I wobble seawards

I then find myself dying

On a curb in Sand Point

It’s a dreary Seattle

Three days into June

It’s a miserable poem

(I know, but I wanted to reach out

and didn’t know how, then I thought

a postcard and a poem might be a

good idea but I couldn’t put in words

what I wanted to say so I said nothing)

Hey, BVW!

I’ll try to call you here soon.

- Afton Light, 2021