Letters


that I still have to write,
telling that I'm healthy, that I'm ok
that I was drunk yesterday in a greek café
and after that in a Grand café, and yes, also at my local café

that I'm preparing myself for a 
really big electric bill

and different things to others-
browsing through a more and more
inexplicable world.

that somebody said:
you expats, you're all the same
while I tipped anyway
wearing French glasses
and carrying German poetry
with at home, on my table
Anne Sexton's superior poem
'wanting to die'

and how I fixed an old lamp
and how he was sleeping on the couch
under a blue blanket

and to whom It may concern
I have to write
that I'm not doing it
that I refuse
that I'm going to sue
that the days here pass by in rain

and that the world is never bigger than a city
and that in that city I
put one foot in front of the other
and what I see when I blink
and that I have to ask how It's going
if that house is already built
and how that other project is going
and how the kids are doing
and if the husbands aren't too miserable