Her priorities are all wrong. She said you were an angel in the haze of the drugs that she is on. So she tried to put things in their right place; boxed, enveloped, licked and stamped all the squares and pills left around, but they have returned again as curled edges in the fog.
She would have liked to have said, 'I am not lost' and stays home, finds her hazy way around the clock until it strikes a poem or a chime.
Transience is nothing to write home about, her fixed abode a straight-faced letterbox, so she'd posted a poem to herself, to arrive on the cold morning after she sat up all night - when she watched the dawn light cut the smoke exhaled; and hungry for fresh air, morning sounds and places, popped to the cafe for a bleary breakfast, to the park for some sun upon her pasty face, and home to sleep just before the post comes round.
She had forgotten what she wrote, and dreaming of the doorbell, imagined the little poem sent wouldn't fit because it had grown so. Yet there it was, slipped through the box, at rest under the shelf, looking straight at her, addressing someone else.
She takes an indelible marker, traces last weeks snail mail pencil trail with ease. Next week, as poems are promises, she hopes that they will speak. 'Return to Sender, please.' in bold, best, and shaky neat - and she is out, back to the post-box, back to the cafe for a bleary breakfast; and forward, one step after another, to the park with the marigold leaves.
