dianne

Monday, July 25, 2016

The more I watch new action movies
with their cars, their explosions and subplots,
the more I am reminded of the place where
I work: frenzied hairdressers toting

enormous boomboxes, enormous children
visiting with “Hello” stickers on their chests,
and work, lots of good old fashioned American
ergon, deployed not without forethought.

I have a pen-pal in Mozambique—or
Tanzania, rather—who apparently refuses
to write with anything but a horse-quill.
And in broad daylight. Sleeps with the light on.

“I can pencil you in,” ends her latest missive.
This one was two sentences, total. The more
I go to work, go home, check the PO Box,
the more I feel bad about losing you,

Diane—or Dianne, rather—woman of many
friends—or mini-friends, rather (slug farm)—
and over what? I’d left an iron on somewhere?
A window open? Had you disappointed me?

• • •

 

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