Wilmington. Oh, Wilmington.
My days would be empty – my mailbox
and recycle bin, too – if not
Wilmington, Delaware; Wilmington, Delaware.
Does any real mail
ever come from there? Anything other
than credit card offers?
Wilmington: I’ve never been, but I picture
a city of banks and businesses.
No homes, just buildings.
No citizens, just workers.
I picture a grid system
and grey, prison-like structures. And lots
and lots of concrete. Parking lots
and straight, flat streets.
But no sidewalks.
I hope I’m off.
It would be a shame for a place
with such a nice name
not to have, say, neighborhoods
scattered with sandboxes, swing-sets
and intentional raspberry patches.
Reader, if you happen to live
and love and play and sing
and even bathe in Wilmington, Delaware,
would you mind
just writing me
with your hand
and a pen
or a pencil
on lined paper, torn
from a spiral-bound notebook?
Just stuff it yourself
into a stamped,
and lick it and seal it and walk it
down to the old blue mailbox
on the corner of Central and Pine.
(The one at Maple and Main, I’m sure,
would also be fine.)
And do I even have to say this?
Make no mention of banks or credit. And don’t forget
the return address (street number,
please – no P.O. Box)
so I can write you back.