Richard Hugo wrote a lot of letter poems. All I’ve managed to write are note poems. I posted a couple to Joanna last week, and here’s a broken pentameter to Phil.

Phil–

I’m back
from five weeks of this and that

ready
to run with you if you are man

enough.
I look the same as always, maybe

fatter
sadder and gray, and a little more

peculiar
as my genitalia have grown freakishly

large.
Besides that, it’s my new lapis

dorsal
fin that makes me look different

from last
time we ran together. Hope

you’re well.
I rode my bike around your house

the other
day. It’s so big the ride

took most
of an afternoon. You must be glad

to have
it done. Now for the living,

always
the hard part and sometimes fun.

Also
with the builders gone there might be more

sex.
(Not enough, of course, but prospects

or even
the thought when prospects are slim will often

do.)
I speak from experience on the Great Plains

I’ve crossed
a hundred times—write it on my tombstone

—the hot,
the cold, the dry, and then a flash flood

washes
us away. This year my dad died,

your mom,
Rosalie’s too, and not fast

enough
mine we hope is on her way.

Hey
there’s no escape just ride it out

until
the water laps slowly against

the hills
the old beach and there you are

naked
a pup waking in a strange land.

The sun
is out, you’re blind, your knees are shot

but what
the hell I’m back from far and don’t

mean
to leave an odd note—who does?—

just want
to know if you can run this week.

The leaves
are turning, there’s smoke in the air, it’s August.

Call me.