My 34 year old invited me
by text to call him: I.R.T. we spoke.
He asked about his oldest friend – did he
once like that neighbor? Yes. And then he broke
the news: the kid was lost in smoke and flame
the night the Ghost Ship burned. Although it’s now
near 30 years, we knew and said the names
of mother, father, brother.
“Tell me how,”
my son then asked, “I have to treat a space
collectively created? I’m a fan
of real collaboration.”
“Any place
can be a threat” I said. “Remain a man
who isn’t paranoid, but notice where
the exit is, before you climb the stairs.”