A Sick Child

The postman comes when I am still in bed.

“Postman, what do you have for me today?”

I say to him. (But really I’m in bed.)

Then he says - what shall I have him say?

“This letter says that you are president

Of - this word here; it’s a republic.”

Tell them I can’t answer right away.

“It’s your duty.” No, I’d rather just be sick.

Then he tells me there are letters saying everything

That I can think of that I want for them to say.

I say, “Well, thank you very much. Good-bye.”

He is ashamed, and turns and walks away.

If I can think of it, it isn’t what I want.

I want . . . I want a ship from some near star

To land in the yard, and beings to come out

And think to me: “So this is where you are!

Come.” Except that they won’t do,

I thought of them. . . . And yet somewhere there must be

Something that’s different from everything.

All that I’ve never thought of - think of me!