Tuesday

Yesterday I found a letter you wrote
in a random drawer I never open.
I was cleaning the apartment.
But its not really cleaning, is it?
When you move paper piles
to other spots to deal with later?

Which is probably why I found it
when and where I did.
It rained yesterday and
I must have put it there
the last time I cleaned on a rainy day.
Assuming I’d deal with it later.

And Tuesday was christened Later.
The paper was yellowing and rough.
Ok, so maybe I didn’t put it there
the last time I cleaned,
or the time before that.
The ink is fading too

Then I saw the date
in the top right hand corner.
And as I read your blue pen
cursive manifesto,
your youth jumped off the page.
And I was embarrassed for you.

So I put the letter back
in the drawer and I closed it slowly.
And went back to what I was doing.
But I can’t stop thinking about what you wrote
And how young you were
But how old you pretended to be.

I didn’t have the heart
to shred it or throw it out.
I suppose I am trying to hang onto
the naivete that I was embarrassed to read
in the voice of your letter.
And I have to admit that part of me wonders

if I will still be embarrassed for you
when I stumble across it again
15 years from now on another rainy day.
It rains pretty frequently here.
But I don’t clean all that often.

(c) 2007