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

dear Burt,

when i pick up my phone
it’s always upside down,
wrong-ways up, flip-flopped
and i try not to do this but
i do arrive at the thought that
my phone is a tarot card
the symbol of Me –
a thing made of numbers
passwords contacts accounts
and sometimes images –
so what does it mean
if by instinct i reverse it?

i’ve started to wonder
if something bad is coming
and i’m here, some poor duck,
an upturned horseshoe,
the luck spilled out of me.

by the way, your dog gets
out of the house every day
around 12, when no one’s home.
he’s back in before anyone notices
(except me. i notice) but i
thought i’d let you know.

your pal,
Ducky Dale

dear Nico,

stuck on this thought lately:
i want to write myself in
to an ’80s movie. any’ll do
            even a slasher
            even if i’m the
            first to die
because in the movies i think
it’s mostly what some time
wanted to be, not so much
the politics or economy or
general strife of reality — so
i guess it does need to be a
specific movie, at least
no serious dramas. something
like mystic pizza or
sixteen candles — yknow?
does it make sense that i
want life to be simple, movie
simple, like childhood without
being a child (powerless).
this real world gums up my head.
my brain is a sticky countertop
& only occasionally, i can
shine it with spit.

oh! i almost forgot —
thanks for dropping those
apples at my door. as
you know, i always try
to keep the doctor away!

musing myself into television static,
Shelley

dear Sadie,

wish i hadn’t laughed it off
when you told me
            kids sniff out fibs like
            drug dogs to dimebags
didn’t listen. even when you said
            trust me it’s their
            life’s work and
            greatest calling,
ever since the meat market
my son won’t stop his talk
about rib-eyes. he clutched
his chest, horrified, lost
momentarily in a thought
where his ribs have eyes,
and i told him (foolish, in a
fumble for magical answers)
            this only happens in cows.
            sometimes a very special cow
            has ribs which decide to
            sprout eyes.
then he says to me
            so we just take
            their special eyes and
                        …eat them?
i haven’t come up with any
good answers yet.

open to (any and all) suggestions,
Myrna F.

dear Cassie,

things i meant to say:
bye, see ya later!, nice
jacket, it complements —
see ya round — because i
intended to and you are not,
unfortunately, here
all week. if you’ll
excuse the exercise,
let’s shift to hypothetical:

i fear the ease with
which i may (probably)
slip into saying something
stupid. so stupid, it’d
put me in the hospital
like if i smelled burnt toast
and my face drooped
halfways down, the two
halves of me a street
gone from one-way to
two-way traffic — ahem!
            i was afraid
            of this
i said nothing.
the white flag internal.
consider it waved! surrender —
my heart cried mutiny.

the summer was young, and
so was i. how could i have
known you’d leave town
for junior high!

you were the best babysitter, honest,
Dale

dear Dr. Frank,

when i think of two
dogs jostling for a stick
in the park, i get this
curious ache in my arm,
around the bicep. i have
no dog, yet it seems a
part of me holds leashes
            and the leashes are taut
                        and the bark park fence
                        strains and the small dogs
            squeal like piglets in mud.
if i’m not anywhere
in particular, with any
particular thoughts
i am at the bark park.

i think (hope) this is all
perfectly normal. suppose
we could medicate it away. . .
            but the window’s down, doc!
            i hang my head out!
            i lap up the breeze! i bark
            at passing cars! perhaps
                        in our next appointment
                        we’ll find out these are all
                        past-life memories. me,
                        a dumb-old, free-old, happy
                                    old dog.

see you thursday afternoon,
Teddy

dear Clara,

i’m stuck on the image of you
last week, asleep at the window.
just before you dozed off, you said
            so serene in the sunlight
and you ended up with this
goofy tan line on your neck,
from the choker i gave you.
you stood in the mirror to see —
i think the way you put it was
            looks like i’ve been hung
            by the world’s gentlest
            executioner
and we laughed, quietly, about being
hung with strands of leftover ribbon,
the craft store clearance scraps.

thought of you because
while i was driving home, that
fugees song — about killing me softly
with whatever — came on the radio
and i had to pull over to laugh.

please give your turtles a kiss for me (even though they stink),
Aidan