Where From Here
Highschool goes slowly on forever, until suddenly it finishes.
Probably, the English paper took only a week,
just before Christmas, that misnamed holiday stolen fom a far from forgotten religion.
Fending off plates and bowls of food from a cheerfully traditional
East Indian mother,
even as she put on her coat to go to work at the hospital, healing people.
Curry, noodles, vegetables, toast, pie...
To go with a blue screen and white type designed to produce a week of migraines.
Crowned by nothing but strange.
These strange letters now bundled together,
markers of 'unsure what to do with these.'
of, 'this feels unfinished.'
Most in homemade envelopes from Calvin Klein ads stinking of bad cologne.
From the ads, they were scratch and sniff.
But you never really had to scratch – or sniff.
The smell bashed it's way into your nose without permission.
Some letters happier than others.
The last two particularly disturbing.
Then there are none.
Two, no one visit much later, after two moves across the length and breadth of an underestimated land.
Strange visit, a marker of
'Unsure of what to do with you, being this.'
And then never again...
No wait, one more meeting, brisk and business-like,
noticing burgundy lipstick and a cool demeanour, in a bus station
on a cold afternoon.
And then never again.
Gone and unmentioned, the eldest and the second in your family.
Where from here, did you go?