A Prose Poem by Anon ymous
I think about carefully writing letters then leaving them in random places:
Dear Subway Passenger,
Let me tell you about my lover.
She’s beautiful in that way sadness has of rounding out edges.
She likes to go barefoot; better to feel the earth tremble, she says.
She worries about the sun when it rains,
Likes to sit in her grandmother’s chair; best seat in the house when it thunders.
She believes in long good-byes and wide-open spaces. Last thing she told me was how words
seem to come alive when written by hand.