Yarrow House

Special Delivery

Special delivery, hand-carried. “Confirm the name.”
Just a job, or is it? Traveling across town, 
dubious courier. Jobs are tight. This town too.

Following him, one address after another,
and some of them not good, or out of date,
or never heard of before, maybe not lying.

Or missing him, by an hour. “You can leave it here.”
And maybe I could, but “what’s your name?”
Maybe there’s time yet. Time to wave goodbye.

But should I read it? This started out sort of funny.
Now it’s just annoying. What’s so special
about a letter. Or is it? Maybe a will or a map.

Picked up a trace in Hong Kong, mainland Chinese 
poised to sweep through. Down into Malaysia, global 
crossroads. Lost it in Nepal between the night market stalls.

And then in Gambia, it starts to get downright spooky. 
Am I being avoided? Red dust, taxi drivers. And who 
is that anyway? Someone trying to steal the letter? 

Europe in a blur, phone booths on empty corners,
late night flights. Guy in a leather jacket watches me
over his paper and beer. Maybe watches. Or the woman.

Yucatan. What’s so special about delivery? Forget it.
Vegetable life lurking at the flanks of pyramids. And warm 
blue waters, lazy waves. Giving up’s not bad in paradise. 

Night alley, sudden hand, knife; barely escaping. Local thieves? 
Or is it connected? Life after all, one puzzle after another.
Should stop, but wait, there, across the plaza. Or is it? 

Published in Borderlands, Court Street Press, Seattle: 1999

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Onetime reproduction for non-resale purposes permitted by the author with the following credit line: © Judith Yarrow, 2012