Elaine de Kooning, Conrad Fried, 1954

I circled your house four times,

having also considered suicide,

found your dot on my iPhone’s

map, and wondered: how still is the dot?

The mind’s brushstrokes swirl.

Shame blurs the face, the eyes

like empty cradles. I know the town

called Succumbing. On the wall

behind my head, the charcoal

shadow also scrawls. Seizure

like an orange streak. The pancreas

a too-full bowl of red paint.

When I say your prison sentence was a relief

I mean I knew the fist-fear in the gut.

It was better than what you’d do

alone. When I tell you I prayed,

I prayed. The first time in twenty years.

My heart—white of my slashed-

open shirt—was held with your keys

and your clothes at Lew Sterrett

Justice Center. I said be careful. Worry

is a necktie with a misshapen knot.

When I say please, I mean

I am not me without you.