A letter, Rather, a series of letters, In a letter, signed Anonymous, Happened upon the doorstep Of my residence While I was away At an insignificant location Which has no relevance To the actions following My reception of this note. Were I some foreign ambassador In an allied land I may have refrained From opening my package And exclaiming, "Sweet Fucking Christ!" But I were not, And I did, And the mail carrier was most Displeased, Not because of my seemingly Overplayed reaction to opening An inky receipt, But due to the cloud of gaseous dust, Or dusty gas, That released itself, Or, more accurately, was released By a person, Or persons, more or less, Of like stature and countenance To my own. We sat there staring at each other Like a couple of Bats Could never do Nor could dream of doing, Assuming that bats dream, Which carries little weight In measuring the considerable Magnitude Of the moment between us. So we laughed because we were Indeed not dying, Nor dead And, much like bats, We thought nothing Of the fact that this curious Gas Or dust, Had begun to settle on our clothing And also had begun To come upward With very inhalation From our smiling mouths. My heart exploded on Tuesday And on Monday I left my mailman A note Proclaiming that I didn't feel well. I'm quite certain He didn't mind.