It is saved in a box—
everything I've been sent.
Little snapshots of you,
your hands, the times.
I haven't reread them.
It stays in the box
until I die. Who knows
what happens then.
I guess trashed.
I don't know.
Maybe read—
then trashed?
But then I read a book,
letters between cousins
transcribed, placed in watch-tick order,
an editor's preface. Little intros
before key times, bound
and sold. Profit made
on these precious
sweet-potato memories. We—
cousins—you and I—
we don't appreciate the past anymore
'cause we're all dead.
Shame those cousins couldn't see it happen—
their friendship is a bestseller.
I'd think you and I are a bestseller,
friendship too. It just took time.
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