Hello, how are you?

It sure has been a long time. I wanted to tell you

I met a colleague of yours today and we shared

stories about you over a glass of wine.

Anyway, he seemed to know you well,

(shocked to meet me)

and he filled me in on the recent chapters

of your (storybook) life as he took me on a casual stroll down

(your) memory lane. Lovely it was, full of sheets

of white canvas, of sailboat journeys off Cape Cod

and Perrier with a (surprising) twist…

It seems that in writing your memoirs

You neglected three rather significant

obstacles you had to overcome. Now, I know

you are a perfectionist, and the fruit doesn’t fall

far from the tree, so I was only too happy to correct your failing

memory and set the story straight.

(Memoirs are non-fiction, as you’ll recall

from your English Lit college days.)

So not to worry. Between the telling of the white

doves and multiple judicial decrees,

(no charge–consider it a gift)

where you should have mentioned

your aversion

to diapers and bed-time stories,

I took the liberty to correct your oversight

and preserve the honesty and integrity of your story

by adding the words

this page, intentionally left                ____________.

the note said

there is no need

for peripheral plot

or overloaded metaphor

for timid parentheses

or non-committal ellipses now

no need for passive-aggressive footnotes

hidden below the surface

no eyes will condemn

the truth

such forgiveness and humanity is

reserved for the dead and dying


but wait I am still here I am here

holding the book fragile

and afraid to see my literature stripped

bare to meaning

and now without notice my editor

has left me too she passed away

and buried herself

with you eternally devoted

unwilling to preserve

my sense and sensibility


is she with you sharing secrets

I can feel her vicious slice

bleeding me cutting away the kindness

of literary discretion and excising the

punctuation that stapled me closed

exposing the wound and the tattered diary

hidden within

tear-stained yellowed pages a pressed rose

and the leaves of October

that never faded

because I always loved you.