if i wrote a letter i would write it
with a big old yellow crayon on a stiff
piece of green construction paper
stolen from the back of a kindergarten classroom
under the sink, sift through the drawers
don't wake the hamsters
nibbling the cage screaming
get me out!
i would smile at them and their
naivety, because doesn't everyone
want to be surrounded by the
fresh and absorbing faces of
tiny kindergarten age children
dressed nicely in their
suede velcro zipper lace
with their braids lunch boxes dirty hands?
but i digress
i would write the letter to
a girl perhaps named alexa
its an unassuming name
yes, yes, that will do
dear alexa,
i would start and dig my yellow crayon
deep into the paper as if my hands weren't
coordinated yet, as if i were myself
sueded up velcro fastened zippered in lace,
maybe i would start with the weather:
the sun is out but i wish it were raining-
have you ever noticed, alexa, that cold
is always much more convenient than hot?
you can pull layer after layer over your head
fester in your body heat until you simply collapse
but you cannot shed it and run around stark naked
in the fervid burn of a heat wave
i would tell alexa that mother is doing well
she still is turning the radio up on the freeway
and singing along misheard lyrics, and
still striking up a conversation with the lady
behind her at the supermarket.
my mind would wander, if i were writing this
letter to alexa.
i'd imagine her in rainbow socks
sitting underneath a yellow street light
in the dead of night, tracing a picture in
the gutter weeds
for some reason i would be watching from the other
side of the street, which is funny
i don't know why i would be up at the
dead of night to see this girl
but come to think of it,
when do day dreams actually make sense
they are always some far fetched idea that
when you snap out of them, you turn red
-think, good thing that's stuck in my mind
so no one can know i was imagining that.
i think she would have long brown hair
maybe black. maybe i can't tell in the
biased streetlight, staining her olive
i know she would be the type of girl to
form opinion quickly
but yet,
softly and calculated
she would never be to good for you
her voice would echo across unattainably rapid meadows
all growing with the buds of the words she
can put to music
like little seeds, she would be a gardener
planting herself in my thoughts
farming through my daily life
always making me
stop to smell the dirt the roses grow up from
playing these sounds up from
a beautiful red guitar
her fingers would be calloused
from excessive tapping against the framework
of the box she is expected to stay within
she would be beautiful, the kind of beautiful
you would not see often
the kind that made you stop moving your feet
to your steady beat just so that you could
watch her as you interject yourself into her beat
smoothly as to not disrupt her, yes
the kind of beautiful that will
make you want to ask her who she is
and where is she from? stopped in your tracks
to trace this unconventional pattern atop her
face as it smiles, and i wish i could
map it for x marks the spot
and bottle the essence of the excitement
that comes from seeing this kind of girl
i could sell it and people would flock from
all the corners of the flat earth and the round earth
and the timeless earth and the sun, if only to
get a scent of this magic this girl has created.
she will take my hand, however quickly
and lead me through the tunnel she has
dug through her box, out into the world where she
has discovered the joy of searching,
but never quite
finding
the key to the meaning of life
so yes, dear alexa,
i would start, and then
i think i would end with a
slow riff through the weather indeed,
it is sunny but i wish it would rain,
oh yes, and i would fold up the
starchy paper and send it through the post
with my kiss for a stamp
resting lightly until i jolt up in bed
in the dead of night, the yellow street lamp
leaking through my window shades
oh no!
dear alexa,
i forgot to thank you
for you