Dear Niki

​I used to pull the truck over to cry
under church billboards.

Join us on Sunday! 

All those smiling 
cardboard faces working
toward perfectly placed crowns
gold-plated streets,
chaise lounge of cumulus clouds.

Then I recalled what I’ve always
known - that we soothe our fears
with fairy tale,

and also, rumor has it that sisters 
with flame hair and a noose 
around the neck are stopped 
at the gate, 
which needs a fresh coat of paint. 

So instead, I imagine you’re in a place 
where the drinks are bottom shelf and the jokes - 

well, who doesn’t love a good dick joke?

Remember how we used to ask each other 
then howl with laughter as if that were the joke. 

What’s it like in your kingdom? 
Angels still dragging around 
dirty wings? 
Dry cleaner permanently closed? 

Driving, I saw the face 
of a homeless woman yesterday 
who looked just like you.  
I wanted to bring her home with me, 
tuck her into the warmest bed 
in the house and feed her 
hash brown casserole but 
I was afraid she might tiptoe 
out in the dark of the night, 
my credit card information tucked in 
her back pocket, her arms wrapped 
around the blue vase grandma gave me.

Or maybe I’ve confused her with you.