My priorities are all wrong. You said I was an angel in the haze of the drugs that I am on. So I tried to put things in their right place; I boxed, enveloped, licked and stamped all the squares and pills I left around, but they have returned again as curled edges in the fog.
I would like to say I am not lost. I stay home and find my hazy way around the clock until it strikes a poem or a chime; and even though transience is nothing to write home about, and a fixed abode is a straight-faced letterbox, I posted a poem to myself, to arrive on the cold morning after we sat up all night, when we watched the dawnlight cut the smoke exhaled; and hungry for fresh air, and morning sounds and places, popped out, to the cafe for a bleary breakfast, to the park, for some sun upon our pasty faces, and home to sleep just before the post comes round.
I forgot what I wrote, and dreaming of the doorbell, I imagined that the little poem sent wouldn't fit through the slender pursed lipped slit, because it had grown so. Yet there it was, slipped through the box, at rest under the shelf, there again looking straight at me, but addressing someone else.
So I take an indelible marker, trace last weeks snail mail pencil trail with ease. Next week, as poems are promises, I hope that we will speak. 'Return to Sender, please.' in bold and my best and shaky neat - and I am out, back to the laughing post-box, back to the cafe for a bleary breakfast; and forward, one step after another, to the park with the Marigold leaves.
