Dear Dad, hard to believe it’s already
been a year since your mailbox
was hermetically sealed,
as if with an oxyacetylene torch,
and all the correspondence
intended for you was rerouted
to me, mid-flight. But since then,
things have really tapered off.
No more stray bills from the radiologist
or Medicare summary notices (no hope
of meeting your deductible now).
And no more home energy reports,
your usage a perfect zero, or glossy
issues of AARP: The Magazine.
(I was shocked at how gray
Jon Bon Jovi had gotten.)
In fact, the only regular missives
you still receive are from your local
humane society, imploring you
to become a foster, make
a ‘pawsitive’ impact, send love
to a shelter pet today. And believe
me, Dad, I have; already writing
three checks and purchasing
an engraved patio brick in your honor.
But still, the letters keep coming.
Just today, they sent a whole
sheet of cat and dog return labels
printed with your name and defunct
address. I actually debated
sticking one to this poem, along
with a stamp, and dropping it
in the mail for you, but we both know
it’d only make it so far, before
beating its way back to me.