Driving To Town Late
To Mail A Letter

Lunch at three o’clock with so and so,
cold chowder whose intent was to enfeeble me
(and I think it does all right—it gets by).
There was an accident near the park,
no one was hurt, well
maybe they were I don’t know,
I wasn’t really watching—
might be that it was no accident at all.
All day, all afternoon, most of the
evening—parts of those moments
as the horizon is struck
gilt and sort of whispering about tomorrow,
or yesterday,
depending on who you think to ask—I had
your letter folded crosswise in my jacket and thought
it reasonable to reply, so I am.
On the bus into town I wear my driving gloves
because it’s nice to pretend and if
someone asks I can always say I’ve just
come from the stables where I’d had a brisk ride
and they’ll look away flummoxed and I can carry on
imagining myself clever
and knowing that if you were here
you’d be laughing
and so I’m happy.
At the mailbox
there is snow in the slot and a bird nearby
complains about the cold
and I feel for him and his dark feathers
which I imagine are not well suited for this weather
so I offer him my scarf; when you get this
please think no less of me or if possible
maybe a little more.