Postcard
Written by: joaquin
oh, fine. i'll set this off then. come on now, kids. don't leave aniket (or me) hanging.
Postcard
It was a postcard that you sent
from someplace far away
from the coast of Argentina
or the hills of Paraguay
somewhere where you stayed
for some lost week or two
dulce de leche on your toast
a veranda with a view
I tacked it on the wall
where I slept, above my head
to stare up at the picture
and remember what you said
you never cared for structure
or for deep roots of devotion
and although I’m sure you loved me
I could not compete with motion
It was a postcard that you sent
with some flowers on a stamp
and another with a hero
or some president or champ
I ran my finger over
your familiar hasty scrawl
scratched out with a nub of pencil
and I tacked it to the wall
the people there were lovely
and the rum was 90 proof
and the welcome warm and real
as those tiles on the roof
you told me that I’d love it
if I ever made it down
but I knew how well you knew me
having never left this town
but my life of expectation
ran surprisingly askew
to the point I have forgotten
who you sent that postcard to
so I bought an old used suitcase
and I bought a tank of gas
and I sold what was worth selling
and the rest can kiss my ass
and I left that postcard hanging
on the wall above my bed
with some pesos in my pocket
and that picture in my head.