i keep going to the mailbox,
coming back empty-handed.
i've been expecting a package,
a letter, even a scribble.

instead, i get summoned
by windowed envelopes
assailing my dreams
for not being grand enough.

eschewed by my own self-doubt
i shrug me off to a corner
and like the endangered silverback,
i find myself awaiting renewal.

at the crossed roads of birthdays,
i see a sand-drawing in the dirt;
a stick-man by any measure
etched in a florent print.

i squint to see him;
he obligingly peers back.
confident is he in his form,
fearful am i in mine.

one step, two, then three.
turn. no wait. oh no!
i've lost count. where were we?
stick-man, i need you.

09/22/2005