On your 39th day,
That’s tomorrow.
Some say it’s the last day
you can visit-
the last time you
come down from the sky
like a meteor and
shower us with
your good presence.
Fuck them.
I know you better.
My address is
my heart.
Do you know how
to send letters
to my heart?
Yes, I think you do.
Your garden grows.
Your tomatoes have formed.
They survived an
uncompromising,
sweltering,
unrelenting
New York City summer.
