Square center, I placed the letter 
on his desk to make it obvious, 
easy to find.  The same way he 
placed himself (though coolly 
nonchalant in his preferred 
method of moon-driven madness) 
in the path of my life.  An 
email would have been enough, 
but he needed something to hold 
onto, something to touch
when he was forced to consider 
the changes its content would unlock.   
I placed a letter on his desk.  
Subtle words that waited 
like cream in confections in 
a white paper sack, while coffee 
dribbled down the crease of 
my cracked Fiesta cup.  I waited 
for an answer for what seemed 
like - a day, and was.   My mind 
played courier to feed the hours and 
brought back sensible apologies 
in his defense, with a thin smile 
and a blot of lipstick 
on a tooth.  I almost believed 
every hollow vindication my 
not-so-sensible sense could invent.   
Except for the quiet. 
Quiet that could have meant anything. 
Quiet that turned into pink insulation 
in a blistery summer attic, muffling 
what grew louder with every non-
response.  Quietly piercing holes
in random patterns across my 
confidence and scraping the edges 
of my throat.  Why do I wait.





M Madison