Howard Firkin
It isn’t easy—neither of us being real:
me, pre-dead,
and you, so very post.
It isn’t easy knowing what to write
on the address lines; what to tell you, anyway.
I’m still alive.
Still here,
immersed in transreality,
and sometimes—now and then—
I think of you and wonder if you thought of me.

I can’t wish you were here, Dad—
you’re not real—
but don’t I wish I was.
Your son.