Poems

Poem by Jeanne Minahan 

Music by Rene Orth 

I know you can’t find me. Look. Look. No more.

I am the envelope torn open, ripped,

window-flung, on the side of the road. Too dead

for the Dead Letter Office. Underground. Unread.

I wanted to arrive intact. No more

mishandling. Earn a bundle—carry a stash.

Find you a room with a door, mailbox, a house.

A yard with no needles, a lawn, green grass.

So much is harmless. We all need money.

One customer, one route, one haul, they said.

Pony express. But the shipment’s not free.

Ink smells of blood. Now God must deliver me.

They said it was just like carrying the mail.

Write to me: I was my own last letter.