Ken Bolton / September Poems / 1.

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?

But the day 
before me
looks pleasant —
if unexamined.

Clean air, a deferential
—a tiny—
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

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