i opened the envelope
sittin on the desk.
it was a letter from my psychiatrist.
it said, “hi, i’m sorry that it took so long
for me to get back to you.
i didn’t realized that you had a talent for writing.
i was so caught up in my work
that i couldn’t get to your poetry.
but my wife leafed through your folder
from my desk the next morning
before going to work
and read your poems.”
i took it in very slow,
each word siftin through my eyes
was like walkin upon autumn leaves
with a companion by my side.
i read a little farther in the letter.
it said, “my wife told me
that you have a good sense
when it comes to romance.
i then pressed myself into reading your work
to see what my wife meant.
the structure of your poems
are tight and clear with imagery.
they give a good illustration
of how things can go
when everything around you collapses.
i want you to remember
our talk about not having a college education …
it’s not everything.
pursue the avenue of writing,
as my wife would love to see more.”
i took the letter
and folded it just the way it came
and stuffed it back in the envelope –
i was good to go for another day.