He tells me his beard’s grown long— the razor issued with his blues, his sheets, his rough towels, has been stolen. “A bunch of crooks,” he writes on yellow wide-rule, punctuated with a faint, penciled smile. (They stole his pens too.) For Christmas, I adopted a whale named Zeppelin, in his name; sent the bio and a photograph in fuzzy black and white. I’ll send him updates on the sightings: where it goes, its mates, its calves. (“You’re the only one who got some tail for Christmas,” his celly said to him.) He passes ‘round the poems I send, the sexy note I wrote while in the bath (I can’t get mad), the articles I tear from magazines, remembered travelogues I scrawl on postcards kept from places where we’ve been: Boulder Field and New York City, Graceland gray with rain. I save to send him money for the small indulgences they sell; buy interesting stamps--he liked the antique cars and constellations best. His letters tell of winning chess, old books, his work to pass the days. He says he saves my letters, the ten that they’ll allow. (The phone’s gone since I couldn’t pay the bill— five dollars the first minute, and every minute dear.) When the baby’s born, I’ll find some one to drive us down. At least he’ll get to see it through the glass. I’m sick a lot, and sad, but keep it to myself; describe the baby’s room, send lists of names and what they mean: Jana (God is gracious) or maybe Jack. He says he dreams of little hands.