I’ve never lived
alone.
I imagine
it would be
something to write home about.
Dear Me,
all the notes would start.
Just writing to say
hello and thank you
for buying gummy bears.
Dear Me,
the note would say an hour later.
How dare you buy gummy bears.
We ate them all,
and now we feel sick.
But of course,
as important as gummy bears are,
there are other issues
my letters to myself might address.
To whom it may concern,
one would indubitably read.
Why haven’t you been
out of the house this weekend?
Why do you eat pizza every day?
Why are you
the way you
are
and not some other way
that might attract friends
and better jobs
and paramours
and good poetry
and efficient life habits?
The reply letter
might be scribbled hastily
in tears and red wine
and gummy bear residue.
That’s how it goes
when you live alone.
Probably.