The Sad One
There was a mournful typewriter and this was its complaint. If only someone loved me! Alas. Alas. I am uncovered at nine, I am covered at five, like a captive bird. No poetry, no music, no freedom songs, no declarations of independence. I cannot see who passes in the street or who dies in the house of who weeps beyond the walls. I have never conferred a name on a newborn child, I have never had a leaf fall on me, or sat under a tree in bloom. No one takes me to the park. But every day a bored girl limbers me up, and begins to play out her sour soul on my keys. I am dying of it, and so is she.
Some day I am going to write her a love letter:
My dear, my dear, don’t give up. Someone loves you. Not a harassed clerk or a harassing boss. Not a necktie or a filing cabinet or a discreet smirk. Not a paycheck, or an expense account. But someone, someone.
Will you seek him? Listen. Follow the clues. Go, when you read this, to the old apple tree at the corner of Unpleasant and Fruitless. Stand there, listen to the leaves. Then hold out both hands. Something beautiful will fall or fly to them. A clue, Open it. Sing its words. Follow, follow, follow.