I was sitting in a convertible in front of a bank
holding a briefcase full of cash. A guy walked up
and asked, where is it recommend you to say to
try, the blindfoldings? Man, I had no idea. I
couldn’t really even understand what he was
saying. I drove away. It’s like, you get in the car,
get on the highway and realize twenty hours later
it goes on forever. At least you’re facing a sunset.
It’s all right. I wrote a poem about it, sealed it in
an envelope and addressed it to you. Tomorrow
I’ll go to the post office and mail it. I’ll spend the
night awake, trying not to open it and rewrite it.
Maybe I’ll throw it away or mail it to somebody
else. Who knows? How green are the trees
wherever you are? Is the sky blue or gray? I just
had brain surgery and I’m feeling a little groggy.
The other day I met a really nice guy in front of
the zoo and I thought of you.
Jason Bredle is the author of three books and three chapbooks, most recently Smiles of the Unstoppable and The Book of Evil. He lives in Chicago. This poem was first published in Phoebe 40.2.