Charles Jensen
Dear November,
I am tired of your rain,
your whining, your gray skies cadaverous and blank,
and more than all of this, I am tired of your melancholy
so please keep your trouble in the box beside your bed
and if you need to vomit, use
the enclosed sack; I’ve been told
things could get a little bumpy.
Dear Gratitude,
what did you
ever do for me?
Dear First Love,
you observed my innocence
objectively, wrote your observations down
and sent them to my parents
plus
I want my jacket back.
Dear America,
put down the chocolates
and I swear no one will get hurt.
Dear Drivers of Suburban Maryland,
my life is in your hands. My life in your hands
is an unpinned grenade.
Dear Regret,
don’t lie and tell me you’ve quit
smoking when I can taste burnt paper
in the back of your throat.
Dear Composition Students,
this will be factored into your final grade
and recorded in big Gothic letters upon
your tombstone
and possibly as
a tattoo you cannot wash off.
Dear Melancholy,
November called.
Dear Inability to Pull Myself Out of Bed on Monday Mornings,
November called and said
it’s urgent.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I know you did everything you could think of
but you should have
thought a little harder.
Dear Subtraction,
why are you so
negative all the time?
Dear Long Division,
you’ve left me
in pieces
yet again.
Dear Dusk, Twilight, Evening, and Night,
whoever fills the lantern of sleep with all the black ink,
please be advised
you’re doing it wrong.
Dear Intelligent Life from Other Planets,
you have been so wise
to stay away.
Dear Vodka Martini,
I am here for you.
Please call.
Dear Morning,
would it kill you to be
late once in a while?
Dear Universe,
this is your last
warning.