Letter Stapled To A Worn Wooden Telephone Pole

ATTENTION:

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I have not lost a pet. I do not teach guitar. I do not have a yoga practice at the YMCA. I am not leaving a passive-aggressive goodbye note to a city I used to know but has changed beyond recognition.

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There is no crucial town-hall meeting to announce. I am not looking for a recently stolen item nor am I advertising anything recently found. For all I know all things are in their proper possession but I could be wrong.

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I do not need a roommate or a cycling partner. I have not invented anything that you just have to buy. I know of no God that judges through my own eyes and ears. My band is not playing a failing bookstore this Saturday.

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I do not operate an adorably named day-care, like "Wee-Beasties" or "Lil Lords & Ladies". I don't mow lawns or haul away junk. I am not looking for a partner to pitch in for gas as we take turns driving across the country and learn odd idiosyncrasies about each other's lives only to part with a handshake and a false promise to keep in touch.

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I don't clean windows. I have nothing in my possession to sell that I would not give freely. I did not notice you walking home late Friday and feel we "shared a glance". I have not cut strips into the bottom of this paper and left my number on each slit for you to tear off and contact me regarding a political movement promising to uphold the promises broken by previous political movements.

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I am not reaching out to any witnesses to the deadly hit and run that took more from me than I could bare to lose. I am not looking for answers in a terrible world. I am not offering answers that provide more comfort than change. The staples which plague this once living tree are the anchors of dreams. They are the lines cast into the river of desire, hoping to catch even a tiny mote of attention. They are here out of want. 

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If you have read this far you are also here out of want. What I have to offer is this. The shape of your face is the spiral perfection of a galaxy in complete understanding of the great black hole at its center and the fate which drives the expansion of the universe. Your hands are the tools of the earth that dig through the junk-drawer searching for some odd and discarded key which opens but a single door. Your love does not spill out into and endless sea thinning and diluting in the expanse. And your heart is lonely. All hearts are lonely but they are not alone. You are not alone. I have nothing to offer, nothing to sell and nothing I need. My heart is lonely too but not alone. I have you. There is nothing about you that is out of place or unnecessary. You are complete and crucial to a larger plan that would collapse in your absence.

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Go now and keep these words close to your heart. Spread love and forgiveness like speckled wild-flowers across a summer field that stretches off to the curved horizon so far that it comes back around creating a perfect spiral. Just like your perfect face. Just like those wondrous galaxies with their gravity and friction that allows life at all. We are all miracles. You are a miracle.

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Also, I have a cordless Weed-Whacker that needs a little attention but works pretty good. Will deliver. Price negotiable.

Reviews

[Myra Fellows]

I like the flip around at the end. Going all lovey dovey and romantic and then BACK to reality. Quite good.

I had an experience that left me noticing a utility pole out the window of a pizza shop. I have always wanted to write about it. Luckily, you did it-but SO much better.

Cross that one off the list.....