There's nothing that I hate more than sitting in my office with the sound of my mother's voice ringing in my head telling me the same story I've known my entire life about how I'm less worthy of her sympathy than anyone else in the world. With the lights out I try to write her a letter. It feels like that Collin's poem did coming out of my mouth. The one about the one-ton bell. And the weight of the tongue. The ring. Instead I write a haiku about this thing that I know about a guy who can never quite find the way to his apartment after dark: people tell stories / robert drunk and wandering / not saying we too are lost from home. I have to go to a meeting without any of these words.