Thursday, January 14, 2016


White envelope, clean, crisp.
Almost starched

Delivered not to her,
but to her boyfriend who will
Know where to look, how to contact
And find her.

It's a process, a procedure, the grandmother sighs.
All is, always.
Nothing simple anymore

He hands the letter inside a letter,
Russian doll envelopes,
Over to the intended owner/recipient
While standing quietly
On Peabody Street

Outside, on the smooth, well worn curb
With one foot on the pavement
And one up in the air, behind his head
For a quick Warrior 3, King Dancer adjustment.

The letter slips and dips
With the wind's frivolities
And then is taken. For keeps,
From his fingers to the clear, smooth, cool blue overhead (both feet are down and planted now).

Not a single cloud to mar the sight,
no white up there, no bright.
Except that paper as it bobs around.

The only white against the blue,
The nestled sheets with the handwritten To:
It floats further toward the sun.

She watches it go, it's almost fun.
To see her name, in cursive in the sky.

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