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A letter came a week ago.
It's mutely resting between
the potted ivy and car keys
marking time on the table
in the foyer.
It's unopened, of course,
but I know what it says -
I just can't make myself
read the words.
I know they're angry.
I know they're designed to ask
in yet one more way
for what I don't have to give.
I've walked by it
a thousand times,
even held it a few.
Maybe if left unread
the words will somehow change
and say what I need most to hear.
C.J. Heck
Read poems about / on: car, change, time
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C.J. Heck
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