Postcard to Wrong Address
Yesterday I was, one place to begin and Today I saw, another, but I know I doesn’t matter to you. You don’t know I or me for that matter. But you are appropriate— appropriately unfit like the not it we sang out in our childhood games. You’re like a confessional or, maybe, the restaurant suggestion box; you don’t care if I’m penitent or cynical. I could tell you about the side of paradise I hiked today with its flora and fauna— the birds!—or the Sidle Parade, a subtle spectacle I saw yesterday, and it matters not. I could tell you how I really feel about my father or my shoe size, and they’d both have the same weight like the Weighing of the Heart—the soul needs to balance the feather to gain entry into heaven. Tomorrow I intend to go to the Dead Man’s Button Museum. They’re also called dead man’s throttles—installed in trains in case an engineer keels over. Without pressure, the brakes engage.