Letter to Harrison

Jim,

Though you’re not already dead, you look it more and more every time you grimace for a New York Times reporter or take a pass on the wine and cheese then take some after all. I wanted to ask you about Nature, but you were busy burning your tongue on a microwaved hot dog. I wanted to ask you about immortality but wound up bumming a cigarette. I wanted to ask you about women, but you turned to watch a girl ride by on a bicycle. I wanted to ask you about death, but my voice was lost in the March wind where you were walking to disguise your tears. I wanted to ask you about love, but you were waist deep in a river and trying to keep your balance. I wanted to ask you about fame, but you were out by the corral petting a puppy. I wanted to ask you about art, but you had fallen asleep.

Though you’re not already dead, your sockets are emptying one by one so that even the actresses feel compelled to use a felt tip when addressing their love letters to you. Are you still camped out under the roots of that old growth stump, or did the bear finally get its way? Are you still teaching Nicholson how to act, or will he have to draw the chalk outlines around his own victims? Do you still fire warning shots at sand hill cranes headed toward Los Angeles, or are you saving your shells for the Last Best Meal?

I hope the weather in Michigan turns to the weather in Montana, and the weather in Montana turns to the weather in Arizona as the season allows. Don’t die without writing.

Yours,
Greg