Dear Cat, yes, I know it’s raining outside every door at the same time. Meowing at the back door won’t fix the situation. I know you haven’t seen rain before but complaining to me won’t work. I know you think I have the power to move heaven and earth, but, seriously. Besides, it’s so cute watching you take dainty steps across the void, shaking each paw as if you were dancing hokey pokey in double time.
Dear Road, I watched in astonishment as you opened up your maws and swallowed all those entitled SUVs, tires and all. You were like Saturn eating his children. I don’t blame you, I hate them too. I bet you’ve been waiting a long time to do just that, to open up. And then, how you bared your underbelly to the sky, with the drought and all. How did it feel, did they taste good to you? Did they taste good to you? Like a box of See’s candy?
Dear Meadow, yeah, sure, often I am called onto you, just like Robert Duncan said. It’s the buttercups reflecting sunlight under your chin. But he left out the messy part about your feet stuck in the mud, like cement boots. And that running carefree part, The Sound of Music wafting from the cloud-speakers. Yeah, no. Surely you must know by now that rolling on wet grass is never a good idea. My granny warned, that when you caught a chill, it meant someone was walking on your grave. Horsemen pass by.
Dear Mr. President, did you really grab Marilyn behind a closed door after she sang Happy Birthday to you in a bias-cut sequined silk dress—so tight that she had to be sewn into it? Or was it the other way around? We witnessed your fall again and again in slow-mo on that grassy knoll, with Jackie piecing together the star maps of your soul. Something was lost that day. Call it a loss of innocence. We are still struggling to find our way back to the garden.
Dear Self, may I call you Self? It’s more polite than saying, Hey you! I know you feel that your life was put on hold, shelved in a dark closet. But surely you know by now that life isn’t fair, and admit it, it was a void of your own choosing. You didn’t play the game right, and 1997 was not a good year for you. But if you latch the door, and then look up, you will see a trail of stars sliding across the darkness that engulfs us all in the end.
1/18/23 Write On! With Susie Terence
I write this poem beginning with Mr. President, then I flipped it from the bottom up.
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