Improv 1, Week 6

Icarus, Rejected
John Poch

His canceled self-addressed stamped envelope
looked like a little pillow , all feathers and down!
All feathers and down, R.I.P, you dope,

the foul note replied. There went his hope.
But there was more. Cloud to town. Dream to noun.
His canceled self addressed stamped envelope

with his poetry manuscript: A tired trope.
Your melted ice cream sundae pile of brown.
All feathers and down, R.I.P., you dope.

Stay off the drugs. None of your beeswax. Nope.
and more: A dead baby in a baptism gown.
His canceled self addressed stamped envelope

held a hard pill to swallow. A pillow? How could he cope
with: Flown. On your own. A bandage for your crown?
All feathers and down, R.I.P., you dope.

Mother's smile to smothered frown. No Pope,
the Editor added, drown in drool, you clown,
you canceled self addressed stamped envelope,
all feathers and down, R.I.P., you dope.


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His worn skin hung like a flap of dough
weighing over the edge of a glass pie dish,
all powdered and ready to become something new.

His mellow hands forget their fingers. That they itch
to press hard the seam of an envelope,
in which so many letters were left unsaid,

children hungry for a birthday greeting.
Time has smothered his years into checkpoints
and lack of paychecks. Instead of macaroni

valentines or wedding invitations, his desk holds
a Gideon Bible and two graduation announcements,
clipped from the next town’s paper. Newsprint creased

to a small rip. Years of travel in his wallet
left them smeared blank, but he knows what they said:
honor roll, scholarship, most likely to succeed,

and always, somewhere in the conclusion, proud mother.
Once, he wrote an amendment on a diner napkin:
No father to speak of, just a name on birth certificate.