Ken Bolton / September Poems / 1.
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1 (Postcard home) for Julie, Michael, Teri, Melentie Send lots of postcards the note said, at work on my last day. I don’t know who wrote it. Julie or Teri. A Saturday. I open up the shop, the gallery, find their note. # We fly out the next day. # And here I am after five days in London & three in Trieste, in Kortula. Three days. Angelina Jolie & Brad Pitt might ‘be’ in the boat opposite the bar we’re in. But I don’t care about them. # So, what’s to report? And is this a ‘letter’ —by the by— or a poem? Undecided. But the day before me looks pleasant — if unexamined. Clean air, a deferential —a tiny— breeze from the sea in the bay, my foot on my knee—where I balance this pad & write to you—my foot touching the table, too, where a macchiato appears my first this trip, my first for years in fact. Tho it means something different in Adelaide: the price of an air ticket. A view of the blue thru pines