A Postcard From Omaha

She sent him an intent — 
laden with place un-worth.

She’d loved the man
in the place she was not.

Far from reason, meaning
an attempt, this promise

to mean I am here,
even though you are not.

She swears it from Omaha
of all places; a postcard

to sojourn inside a box,
a symbol taken. Taken to him.

The most faraway place
to grow old being told

that an index plus x-cents
could be buried, cataloged.

She wishes to remember.
Sad to extent but at least

a bit happy when she 
scribed the card, smirking,

a message wrought with memory,
ironic jest kept to breast, written

Can mail be delivered to a tombstone?
I love you anyway.

It was a brief wandering in Omaha,
entering the next town thinking,

Every day and No, of course not,
but wouldn’t that be something?