Note to Davy, Addressee of a Postcard I Find in a Consignment Store


Dear David Evans III, of Newton, Mass., 


Your Nanna sent you alligators in full color, their huge jaws 

clutching the back seat of a black man’s trousers, 

the man down on his knees, praying for the pearly gates 


to swing wide back in 1951. Did you laugh at your Nanna’s 

sense of humor. Did you think of Road Runner? 


Were you happy for Nanna and Gramp’s beach vacation? 

Her crisp waves of cursive, bland words— 

grand weather, arrived here yesterday—her ink 


of insidious intent. Implicit consent. Do oblivious

and hostile come down to the same thing? 


Davy, if you are alive and read this, please let me know, 

was it you threw Nanna’s card into the consignment-store bin? 


Do a thousand alligators bewilder your dreams? 

Are you all thought out? 


Do you sleep at night unburdened as the boy you were? 

Or toss and turn?