Postcard

"Take the recycling out before you go," she

said. It's seven in the morning, there's

more than one way to

get rid of what you don't love.

Postcards daydream of many momentary

fingerings to come, cold flat

card-stock desire.

I fit myself into the small

blue box, I go

(some will only aspire to be this useful)

where it wants me to go.

Farewell fumbled request,

convictions of uncertainty,

the socks on my feet.

Farewell cancer I won't miss you anyway,

projected antigrandiose,

embrace at the end of the day.

Farewell simplicity, melt me

down, mix and match, paper,

glass, no matter of my own.

I am manual transmission.

Let your something important

climb onto my back, a woman

awaits, I'll find her soon,

by means of their light touch, their

careful handling, beginning with hers.

I fit myself into the small

black box, I go

but not where it wants me to go.

She wishes me luck, she whispers while laying me down,

"Climb into bed and out of your head."

Farewell, my love, you won't miss me anyway.