Greetings
from a field.
I am drunk on cocoa
and naked
but not in the way that you think.
I hope sometimes you remember
that you are lanky and graceful
because sometimes I remember
I confused you.
You picked me yellow flowers
from the side of the road
and your eyes had yellow flecks in them
when you squinted at me on your porch
and we were only similar once, in that
we were both yellow-bellied;
you could not bring yourself to tell me
and I, until now,
could not bring myself to tell you
that I hate you.
This letter, this poem,
my yellow friend,
is the last will and testament
I think I can stand.
I’d rather my smiles have been
for the you I’d made up in my head
than for this elbows-in-ribs
stranger with a Vacancy sign
in his arms.