Letter to a far-off lover:
Dearest Darling,
Hey, baby, what’s happenin’?
I love you so bad.
Why not pack a bag and come ride to New Orleans with me on the train and we’ll make love and eat shrimp by the banks of the Mississippi?
And I love you more than Bessie loved the blues.
More than Simone loved Sartre.
More than Ossie loves Ruby.
More than Anaïs loved Henry.
More than Yoko dug John.
More than O’Keeffe loved Stieglitz.
More than Herschel wanted the Heisman.
I love you like Dr. J slamdunking against Boston.
And that ain’t no joke.