WEBVTT

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This next poem is an
older poem, but it's

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based on an actual experience.

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So that's something that's
literally true however.

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So realistic it may sound.

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It's called Envelope.

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Eight neatly typed
poems, a brown envelope

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airmail to the newest little
magazine in the middle West.

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That was about a month
ago, how careful I was even

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adding a little extra glue
should the contents prove

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volatile, making sure
both poems, the more

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advanced quarterlies had refused
were retyped the same easy race

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I'd used with the other six.

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The man I sent to mail them
hasn't been seen since.

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This morning the phone rings,
a stranger is asking me,

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do I know anything about a
59 Thunderbird convertible

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abandoned on East Broadway?

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Nothing inside but a brown
envelope and some poems.

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