Walking Toddy to Mail a Letter
The only things moving are swirls of snow.
—Robert Bly, "Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter"
It's a Chicago February. Sugary snow is piled up.
Clean sidewalks. Everyone shoveled before work.
I'm off on a weekday. The morning sun is out.
Bills, the cloudless sky, and Robert Bly on my mind.
After I drop my letter in the mailbox,
my reason to get out of my place is gone.
My pitsky knows I hope to go somewhere.
He's a recovering rescue but a stray flaneur at heart.
Toddy tugs the leash to say, "let's try this way."
It's an excuse not to have an excuse.