Radio Tower
In early 2001, I moved into a tiny basement apartment in Portland, Oregon. I was separated, nearing divorce, with shared custody of my three-year-old son, Holden. I told him he’d spend half his nights with his Mom, half his nights with me in what we came to call The Writing Room.
I was still trying to sort through the wreckage of my marriage, unable to grasp what it meant to be divorced (again).
So I wrote myself a prose poem:
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