A Sick Child

 The postman comes when I am still in bed.

"Postman, what do you have for me today?"
I say to him.
 (But really I'm in bed.
)
Then he says - what shall I have him say?

"This letter says that you are president
Of - this word here; it's a republic.
"
Tell them I can't answer right away.

"It's your duty.
" No, I'd rather just be sick.


Then he tells me there are letters saying everything
That I can think of that I want for them to say.

I say, "Well, thank you very much.
 Good-bye.
"
He is ashamed, and turns and walks away.


If I can think of it, it isn't what I want.

I want .
 .
 .
 I want a ship from some near star
To land in the yard, and beings to come out
And think to me: "So this is where you are!

Come.
" Except that they won't do,
I thought of them.
 .
 .
 .
 And yet somewhere there must be
Something that's different from everything.

All that I've never thought of - think of me!

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