Dear Spencer,

The word was our sword and we battled ennui politely. I will always have your back even though yours was usually turned to me. I was never bored and tasted every verb you wrote. You let the light in and it would have blinded me if it were not for your cool shades. It has been ages since we last worked together on an essay or vignette but I hear you still tell the neophytes of my interview and poems. You seemed so saccharine and I never knew why. Did you have the balls to make a fist whenever you would cry?

It was “Hamlet” in the Shire, and maybe a Blessed Virgin was there, too. I knew everything you did but never anything about you. You were my father in designer clothes with a voice that warmed like fleece. I hated how you sacrificed so much time instead of getting close. I want to thank you for helping me make it to the next station of my life. You could have used a little edge or maybe a little rock sensibility. Regardless, you have always been a star to me and taught me graceful polity and deference. We always wanted to know who kissed you in the mornings before you arrived and whether that place you called yours was Heaven or a dive. Write me sometime.