last letter

Dear Doll Face --

You're not really going to cut your Audrey Mane are you? I know she looked rapturous with a pixie cut, and Seberg was never lovelier, but let yours get tangled around your ankles, ok? You can always tuck it under that floppy lake hat. I'll even keep my hand on top on breezy days.
Thanks for your scented and lipsticked letter. (Glad you left out any deathly lock of hair).It gets lonely here. It's so quiet without your Italian exclamation points and mischievous laugh. And I miss your lucid eyes. And your morning frost melting body. With or without a skirt. The only sound beyond this typewriter is the egg popping in the skillet. I took in that stray cat you love. I named him Whiskey. He doesn't come when I call. I'd rather have a dog. They make better astronauts. One brave and daring pup is orbiting the earth still. Whiskey has no interest whatsoever in chasing these annoying baby armadillo rats that've overtaken the kitchen. They move so slow and seem to have no wants, and sometimes they just stare up or over at me, pushing me head first over the cliff of self-consciousness. I throw them as hard as I can, hissing, and they appear again next sunrise. And all the carrots come up missing.
Oh. Oh no. Ah hell. Speaking of dogs - the Great and Powerful has just bent a twister on a dog leg off a par 4 hole and it's heading my way. You may be getting this letter air mail. And with it the Underwood. Grabbing all Whiskey, cellar bound.
I love you.

-- Philip

art: Between Heaven and Hell (1989)
by Jacek Yerka