I’ve elongated my brain
with a few shots of tequila
when I finally click the pen
to scribble on a
drugstore-bought card
for my grandmother
to acknowledge receipt
and appreciation of her
Christmas gift of $50
I wonder who gave her my address
Had she asked for it or had
my mother dutifully sent a mass e-mail
with the details of my move to
this chilly city; with an address
omitting any mention of my girlfriend of five years
With so much blank space,
my ink turns into words
shaping together snowfall reports
I hurriedly sign my name
at the bottom, almost illegible
and without “Love,”