Dear Poet,
The noise in the dining room is not us fighting.
We’ve locked the cat in there.
You know how he tears around, like a ghost
is after him. Last night he shattered all the plates.
Guy nearly killed him,
but there is something in the spread of china
on a hardwood floor, something
in the way the pieces form a mosaic:
we find we like the pattern better
when it’s broken.
Please—feed him for us.
Could you water all the plants?
You’ll find a bottle of Catullo
in the kitchen—it’s excellent:
rich, complex, with a surprising twist.
We think our lives should be more like that.
We expect it’s quite a shock for you
to find us gone. We’re tired
of living within the lines you’ve drawn,
of sketching out a dead man’s life.
Drink the wine. It’ll help.
Talk to the cat—he probably misses us
as much as you do. Don’t bother with the mess—
it’s done. We all have to live with it.
We’ll call when we get back—
Leslie