A Letter Sent

A Letter Sent

(“When the news reached Pharaoh’s palace, ‘Joseph’s brothers have come,’ Pharaoh and his servants were pleased.” Genesis 45:16)

Every poem I write is a letter
sent
to the ones I’ve loved. They are meant
to diffuse the confusion of past
clowns and charades;
to clear the dusty air from my overnight mind
that awoke hugging a sliver of the bed.
I write in the hope the sky will be surprised
because I’m stuck in the moment,
riveted to the chair,
wanting to stop crying and laughing alone.

This is why I write,
in the hope my words will fold in on themselves
and, like a paper airplane in freshman English
sent from the back of the class,
will land in a soft slide upon your desk.
You won’t even need to read it once you see
it is from me.

Every word I type is a plea,
(I shall not beg)
that someone will recognize my face,
my time, my sweat, the footprints I left
when I only wanted the best for you. Sounds
I haven’t heard in decades
fill my silent isolation.

Did 12 years mean anything? Were 40 a vapor?
Are the cell towers dead? Did you run out of postage?
Is your bank account empty? Have I used up all my hugs?
Am I too weak, too needy? Even just a plaque with my
name spelled out small is something I could hang on the wall.

Unlike Joseph, I stumbled more than I want anyone to know;
still, did any of my days matter? I am sorry for sounding morose,
but couldn’t Pharaoh at least offer a toast and mention
that, though I did not finish perfectly,
I finished pretty well?