Last week I drove to Washington, DC with teary eyes and a package of crayons and I took pieces of paper and copied the imprints of too many names to count from the memorial wall. Then I went to the Best Western and fell asleep with the heater turned up so high I was stuck to the sheets. I ate two donuts, puked, and took pictures of the white house. the only picture of you i have is from the fourth grade. it was 1979, you had a mullet and wrote poetry about cats. a girl named christina broke your heart, you pissed yourself on the bus and your dad hit you down the stairs. i didnt stay all week, i just had to make sure you were breathing or that you really existed.