no return address

I write you letters and mail them to the old man who lives down the street. I just picked him because he wears a good hat and seems like someone who once may have smiled. He was young and his arms were strong and he pumped hot blood like a shotgun and he would kiss with urgency. And he never thought about a cane. And he never knew little kids would trample his flowers and the world would spin so fast. And when he reads my letters that are paper airplanes full of loaded words and the heart of wild woman, I'm pretty sure he pours himself a bourbon and sits in his big fat chair and lets the word goddamn fall from his mouth over and over again.