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For Gina Ingoglia Weiner, 1938-2015
You’re gone a month when it appears—
   a message in my queue.
My stomach veers, my heart slips gears;
   it says that it’s from you!
I let it sit a while, unread,
   as loopy hopes burn bright.
We always said, alive or dead,
   you'd find a way to write:
This place is real—who would've guessed?
   My halo is a beaut.
They've fixed my chest. … The food's the best!
   The cherubs? So damn cute.
I always take my morning strolls
   with Mother (she says hi),
then wolf some bowls of doughnut holes
   or half a pumpkin pie.
Most afternoons till five or so
   I’m sketching with my pals—
Claude, Georgia O, Toulouse and co.—
   I love those guys and gals.
What else? I could go on for days!
  New tunes of Debussy's,
new Chekhov plays and Child soufflés,
   new Christie mysteries . . .
At last I open up the note
   and even as I groan
(it's Dad who wrote, of course; I quote:
   "with help from Mommy's phone"),
and even as I answer—ping!—
   and let the screen go black,
there's just one thing I'm wondering:
   who's going to write me back?