The moisture from the stamp I
never licked is evaporating in memory.
The postcard has on it an image of an Egon Schiele painting that
is a bit shy of propriety but not tastelessly so.
On the back, words, are written, words
you will in time forget, not necessarily
Because you feel you have to, no,
you tell yourself that, no,
Because you want to, you
Want to have to and
a substitute for okay.
In my kitchenette cupboard there are no cans of tomatoes and
no soup, there is no brown sugar and no packets of tea.
In it there are no cans or cups or food at all.
There are however books stacked high, some
art of mine and others gifted to me and one bought, and
Atop that work lies a shoebox with that postcard and perhaps nearly a dozen more
- also never sent - I have rarely opened it and
nearly every time I attempted an opening I
closed it before airing the contents.
One day - I do not plan to mark it on my calendar -
its contents will be burned and
the ashes will go as they were back out into the world.
By now I should not even need note that my signature would be preceded by XO in multiple.
For now that will have to suffice as Theo Konrad Auer