Longhand

I tuck all my fear

in an envelope,

fold it in my back pocket,

and wait in line to post it.

 

It's unsolicited,

this blue note.

An apology,

the rarest of terms.

 

Jockeying for sympathy

passes for conversation,

so, unsigned, I send paper

to hold your perspective.

 

As you smooth the crease,

you might notice

the page is waiting

for reply.

 

Moving a pen

is how we chart and change

our mind. The words, spell

themselves.

 

The same size

as a grocery list,

the lines just as short,

a poem reads our future.