Eddie, you have
not returned my calls,
nor answered my letters;
it is so cold out, Eddie,
and I’m fiddling with the
ball of yarn you made
me. Remember? String,
and thread, and string,
weave it, unwind, thread,
weave, sew.

Eddie, it’s so cold back
home, and everyone’s left,
there are no families or
sunlight like there used
to. We are running low
on milk and oil, and bread
and water—peasant food,
Eddie. Peasant food. There’s
only one other with me,
her name is Ronda, she’s
very small and hungry.

Eddie, the crowds on the
barren streets are dying
down, and the Post Office
is opening back up tomorrow,
but watch out, there might
be crowds at the Post Office,
and woman wearing shawls
over their faces, and men with
hidden weapons in their
breast pockets.

Eddie, please.
Send us some of your
heat. You have an un-empty
smile that makes me feel
full at night, and alive at
morning. Return to your
home soon, and return
to my arms. The moon
is waxing tonight, so
please, be here to
quilt these
barren streets