dear Hanna,

if you received correspondence
from my husband (Old Fart),
kindly disregard him.

i hear the live shows played
each morning from your computer
& it’s not a sound i mind –
choruses, refrains, muted
by insulation & wood beams
sound like whistles on old trains or
the drone of mourning doves
& could make no more disturbance
than movies, except that music
doesn’t sound like movies,
& i’m not so curious about movies.

much to the contrary of Old Fart,
i hope you’ll go on playing these.
the quiet dead of morning needs
your interruption like breakfast.
Old Fart, for his part, often sleeps
through it all, incapable of a proper
listen or appreciation, & wrote you with
one side of his brain instead of two.
(he seems inclined toward this
lifestyle ever since age 32 when
a paint bucket tipped off a ledge
& struck him & stole his joy)

as i can only appreciate the muffled
mystery of your music, please
do not tell Old Fart which songs
or provide him any links. sometimes
i think he’s bitter & wants
my joy stolen too.

your downstairs neighbor,
Arlene (Mrs. Old Fart)

dear Peg,

i’m sorry it’s been so long
since i wrote you. you’re right
that it’s a simple thing
which counts for more
than it’s worth. i just can’t seem
to manage even the simple
stuff – i leave groceries
in the car when they belong
in the fridge, chapsticks
chocolates deodorants melt
in the sun, table fruit
bruises and browns.
and there’s the job. and
the food on the table. and
laundry and clean up clean up –
so i hope you can see this
silence for what it is:
not entirely within my
control.

feeling like a whacked weed,
Cheryl