I wrote you a poem but I immediately stuck it between the pages of the summer novel I've been reading at the pool most days. It felt safer there. I'd like to give it to you but I probably won't. I'll just read it again when I get to the part where the woman figures out the mystery and the poem will fall out of the book and land on the wet cement. I’ll pick it up and hold it in my hands and the sun will glare out in all directions and children will scream and laugh. And someone will make a splash so big that I’ll feel it on my chaise lounge over where the moms sit. And I’ll just sit there for a minute holding the poem and wondering if the ink will dry.