He always said the years
after the meltdown — when blood vessels
inside his skull exploded —
were a bonus, that if evolution
really worked, he’d have been dead
by now.

We regret to inform you that you are now a member of the club without a name …

hiya toots
its me

Every year on his death day I send an email to his old address: troutbum@… at what? This year it has disappeared like his voice, his touch, his scent on two flannel shirt hanging shoulderless in my closet.

In life, he was a pitcher—his dad, the Little League coach, commanded him to throw a hundred balls at night for practice, wearing out his arm, eventually giving up the game altogether.