for Paul Manafort
Leaves are no longer the leaves, you think?  Don’t come near — I’m writing in fraught cycles of perpetual panic. 
The warden had called for vinyl yellow corn husks flanking french doors leading to the territorial room where they proceed with surgery to remove complainant fat..   

Not yours, happily. But close enough . . .

The screenwriter, who cheated your father, wants to stay chic simple, s/he develops fat samples — tints them solar . . 

Then changes fat to bay windows . . 

And the surgery is successive! One by one the windows break down with no views.