Please Forward
         -for Jeff-

It’s not our parting I grieve, it’s that you’re the only one
who remembers my last summer of innocence, of dumb
omnipotence, my body unmarred. Nixon’s wiretaps were
still under wraps. The Vietnam war limped hopelessly
for another year. You’re the only one who remembers
how we drove backroads carefree for hours in your blue
Duster swaying to Janis and Big Brother. I loved how you
hugged the curves, steering one-handed. You liked 
how I knew every car-make by its grill and headlights, 
even in the dark. How I beamed when you praised 
I’d make a good car mechanic’s wife.

I was never able to tell you how three months after 
our last date, grills and headlights took on a different 
meaning when I was struck hitchhiking by a hit and run
driver. Months later, finally conscious and able to write, 
I wrote telling you what happened. 
The letter was returned, and the postal clerk
who answered my call lamented, Oh Honey, I’m so sorry, 
we had a fire a while back, and lost all our forwarding addresses.