Mother, I won’t forget the kindness or the map
you gave me but mostly I’ve found it unhelpful.
I am writing to you with a short library pencil.
The place beside the deli across the street is called stitch & trace.
What ebullience is to a garden-variety, nothing to see here happiness
I happen to be to a shallow topspin sadness.
I am tall and slanted—window and ceiling; sorry.
The small and mid-sized animals in the knee-tall grass
are bored of me as I of them and yet so often
we encounter each other. Mother, professor, friends?
We were told that if the sun gave out we would not know for 8 seconds.
How can I trust you with a bike so expensive
and a fishing rod so old and no flute?