-airmail-

an introduction to a commission

so it’s been about two weeks since this happened:

I opened the side door to check on the day's mail.

It’s an old, small rectangular metal box with a lid

which has a narrow slot for the delivery of
the standard monthly bills, letters, greeting-cards and the like.

for larger items, the lid lifts to accommodate.

but the slot, like I’ve said, is narrow and the lid

opens, but slightly which causes problems when

fetching magazines, shopping-mall fliers, and the always

amusing shoutouts from local dealerships who

want to buy my car and can give me the deal of a lifetime.

as my hand digs in, my old friend Alan Johnson walks up the road.

––he knows I write things down.

he wants me to write something about his father

who died when Alan was three years old.

he’d like me to write something about a man

he never knew, nor loved and didn’t remember.
with my hand stuffed inside the narrow mailbox and nearly
held there without consent, I began the age-old struggle
confronting artists of all stations, which is
to proffer excuses, no matter how ridiculous, to avoid
committing to perform such requests.

"A band of criminals stole my MacBook and I can't do anything without my MacBook."

"For christsake, Alan. I’m going to croak soon enough myself"!

but then –– but then,

Alan (Chico) Johnson, once a young Bedford Street compatriot

through our time in the 50s into the early 60s tells me:

“He was killed aboard his Destroyer in World War Two by a Kamikaze”.

so the poem dedicated to "fighting" Al Johnson is nearing completion.