"There's not much doubt in any of our minds that no complete idea springs fully formed from our brow,
needing only a handshake and a signature on the contract to send it off into the world to make twenty-five billion dollars.
The germ of the idea grows slowly..." - Walt Kelly

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Postcards from Italy

Day Nine: Take any randomized playlist and use five consecutive song titles in a poem.

She sent the family
postcards from Italy
to tell us how well
she was doing, how many
people she had met.

She wrote us about
the comfort she found in
the shade of an old pine,
one that grew outside the
window of the house
she lived in - how the
scent of the tree blossomed
in the midday heat. She
said it reminded her of
Chicago - picnics in the
forest preserve and the
speckling sunlight on the
wide-brimmed hats
Grandad used to wear.

She wrote us when she
was homesick, when she
wished she could get on
the next big jet plane
back to O'Hare, step off
into the sweet, doughy
scent of an Auntie Anne's,
cinnamon sugar coating
her grateful fingers and lips.
She wrote us to say
that she was coming home.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Beirut, Postcards From Italy

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