Possible to be Weary: NORA
You are one of those things Proust was wrong about; that Celtic soul inhering in things is transitive, so that you might put yourself there with giggle. Thank you for the care package. Will kites or candy ever be the same?
You really know how to fold an envelope. Playboy centerfolds, paper dolls. You made the roommate blush. She’ll think twice before leafing through my mail, the jack-a-lope. I’m surprised the postman didn’t keep it for his dirty little locker. You can never tell with institutions of faith.
Blind date, huh? You jerk. I am forced to shift gears rapidly. I have lost my ergonomic detachment. Think of all the poems about rain that get written after a deluge.
Dude! Faith is for doddering fools without a plan. We’re all just draftsmen for the divine; and unless you’ve got a concept to pitch, you’re going to be subcontracted for designs of Beelzebub’s new brimstone port-o-pots. I’d hate to see it. I really would.
A blind date, really? Call me so we can deal with this.
PS: Have you heard from Simon?