To Whom It May Concern
by Noah Gordon

I loved the lagoon by the bay
where teams of boatmen,

two or three strong,

would scurry across the surface of the water
like impatient dragonflies.

I want to go back
and be there with you.

I can hardly remember
the way you looked that night

when you drunkenly came to my room,
asking to stay the night.

In the morning
I walked you to the bus,

and paid your fare.

Ten years from now
I hope I’ll have forgotten you.

Ten million years from now
none of this will have meant much.

To whom it may concern,

I miss you,

and the bottled up talk
of death

and time

and rain,
falling flatly on the town

outside our windows.