To the Artist In the Hole, From the Poet In the Hole

I dug a hole to the other side of the world when you told me of your trip, my friend. I spent the $20 tip you left on a shovel; I spent myself on the dig. From where I sit, hanging my feet on the edge of this narrow abyss, you're in the hole, somewhere in the pit of China, living the life of an artist—I assume, to the fullest. Are you also claustrophobic? From where you trot, I must appear, through the scope of the hole, as a little speck of man-shaped dust interrupting a sight of otherwise clear blue skies—holding on to the rim of the lense for dear life (by dangling legs, no less). Appearances aren't everything until they are: I am nothing if not the vision on the television screen in your pocket, purporting to be me. It is a counterfeit, and so I assure you, from the bottom of this hole, it is the real me—as much me as my arms and legs, as real as my name staining like tears from the ennui pulp of this page.