The Goddess is a Man

I live next to a concrete river.
A father is my neighbor.
I may have been myrtles and snakes,
pharaohs and girls.
I might sit on my steps with coffee.
The porch light is probably on.
Traffic patterns time.
I know where I live through touch.
This man is searching, this man got.
Where I live now, mothers write letters
when their sons feel clack
clack clack in their stomaches.

Women send mail: woeful letters and coupons.
They ask for thoughts and they ask for
the miracles they need.
Women don't address these, and I find them
strewn in the street.
I've read the same writing for years,
and i've not responded the same response:
on a postcard, I didn't tell someone to be okay enough
to feel through the pain – there is more coming,
I didn't write, so don't let it hurt you.

I look for smudged ink on manicured hands.
I stand in the paper aisle and watch which
stationary disappears. I hope that postman
allen will hand me a spit-sealed envelope,
but he searches through his mail pile
and moves to the next house.

Women don't send their letters to me.
My neighbor gets mail enough for him to ignore.
Maybe he is the Goddess.
If he gives hope, I'm going to hope for him.
If they are just bills,
I will think my thoughts anyway.