Please Send Her My Way

She's out there — somewhere, surely. 

Probably took the day off work today because it rained

and is sprawled out in a chair, upside down like the Apostle Paul.

Putting off doing the laundry,

thinking of writing something or having a drink.

She probably talks to her cat as though he understands her about conventional wisdom. 

He is a devout Catholic, after all.

It's Ash Wednesday, he reminds her.

She sat the fish out to dethaw. 

If you know her, please send her my way.

She probably converted her living room 

to a makeshift library of books 

she buys at yard sales and antique stores.

She likes the smell of the old ones —

the vintage paperbacks and leatherbounds. 

The other half of the room are albums, 

mostly 20s to 50s singers, crooners, big bands. 

She loves Ella Fitzgerald best.

She loves Ted Lewis from Circleville

and most anything vaudeville.

Yet, no matter how much she reads, 

or to what song she listens, 

there is something missing inside her

as there is something missing in me. 

We have both sought to fill that void

in various ways — most unsuccessfully. 

If you know her, please send her my way. 

She likely hasn't any money because she 

spends more than she makes. 

She doesn't care, nor does she horde it.

Social status doesn't mean a thing

and she more than likely shops at thrifts. 

There's probably junk mail in her mailbox

that she wishes were love letters, instead.

There are people dead she wishes were alive 

and people alive she wishes were dead. 

She is probably generous to a fault

and can't pass a Salvation Army kettle 

without emptying her pockets —

though she pretends to be cold and heartless

with an affinity for villainous bitches.

If you know her, please send her my way.

She is undoubtedly Christian, though she curses and has a soft spot for witchery and witches. 

She is probably thinking about getting chickens —though she doesnt know what she'd name them if she did. 

She might work in a bank or a gas station.

Or maybe she's a waitress, or a mortician and 

we will meet when she embalms me.

"Hello, mister. Finally," she might mutter with an exasperated sigh over my dead body. 

Maybe she is an exotic dancer or a palm reader, reading faces or hands. 

Or maybe she sells cars, or apples.

It doesn't matter what she does, what she's done, or what she doesn't do.

If you know her, please send her my way. 

She is probably a writer, too, though she may not write anything down.

Probably an avid reader. 

A lover of obscure music, dresses, the twenties and antiques.

She certainly prefers mom-and-pop diners over mawkish chains. 

She likely doesn't trust the government, and knows nothing of capital gains.

She certainly abhors TV and commercials

and artificial corn syrup and attention-seeking whores.

She probably has tattoos, though a few she regrets.

She probably has a line of former lovers, 

though one or two she forgets. 

She probably doesn't have fake nails or fake anything at all.

She probably knows every scene of Casablanca and all the words to The Wall. 

She's probably emphatically bored by boring people who —

bore and bore and bore and do only what they're told to do.

If you know her, please send her my way.

I bet she isn't easily impressed and doesn't care to text.

And she doesn't ever let a black cat cross her path, lest not be hexed. 

She likely doesn't pass a dandelion spore without trying to catch it to make a wish. 

She probably scoops worms off the sidewalk after a heavy rain left them bereft.

She's probably conservative, but in some things leans left. 

She surely likes drive-in movies and starry skies and favors the brutality of truth to the tenderness of lies. 

If you know her, please send her my way. 

She probably waves to kids on passing school busses, and admires old cemeteries and wrought iron. 

She likely loves old people and old movies 

and loves to plant flowers and trees. 

And surely she loves the ocean, but I bet she calls it the sea. 

She loves to sled and ice skate, though she might be terrible at it, too.

And though she loves animals, I'd bet she doesn't like the zoo. 

She loves all the seasons, but prefers the summer and the laziness of rain. 

She loves to fly, but if she could, I'm sure she'd rather take a train. 

I'm certain that sometimes she doesn't tie her shoes 

and she doesn't do drugs, but she isn't likely to pass on good booze. 

If you know her, please send her my way.  

We are not whole, as we are. We are two halves. 

Two halves that have not if we have not each other. 

Two useless things that dwell or linger, that do not properly function without the other. 

Two doohickeys in a junk drawer waiting to be paired. 

So we stay up late writing poetry or take the day off work and sit upside down in chairs,

wondering things that we do not know. 

Wondering, if and when our other half will ever show.

If you know her, please send her my way.

I wonder if she stays awake and writes poetry, too.

Or if she reads the loves stories I've written and posted for her before.

Or if she lies awake simply wondering, with her hair sweeping the floor. 

Or maybe we are not unknown and she is biding her time to make herself known. 

Maybe she knows well of me and is waiting to see something I do not know. 

I wonder if she is an insomniac and takes pills, 

or drinks tea to sleep,

or if she slept all day and figures it is her penance to lie awake and to keep wondering. 

I wonder if we have met, but we just didn't know what to say —

if, for a moment, we faltered. 

If you know her, please send her my way.