Postcard to Wrong Address
Yesterday I was, one place to begin 
and Today I saw, another, but I 
know I doesn’t matter to you. You 
don’t know I or me for that matter. 
But you are appropriate—
appropriately unfit like the not it 
we sang out in our childhood games. 
You’re like a confessional or, maybe, 
the restaurant suggestion box; 
you don’t care if I’m penitent 
or cynical. I could tell you about 
the side of paradise I hiked 
today with its flora and fauna—
the birds!—or the Sidle Parade, 
a subtle spectacle I saw yesterday, 
and it matters not. I could tell 
you how I really feel about my 
father or my shoe size, and they’d 
both have the same weight like 
the Weighing of the Heart—the soul 
needs to balance the feather to gain 
entry into heaven. Tomorrow 
I intend to go to the Dead Man’s 
Button Museum. They’re also 
called dead man’s throttles—installed 
in trains in case an engineer keels 
over. Without pressure, the brakes engage. 
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