I buy myself postcards of everywhere I’ve been—
without a postmark. The look I go for, vintage: 
a crowded San Francisco cable car in 
sepia. Or a faded scene, fences aged,
barely holding up, like in the pastures 
of Steinbeck novels, how green a green 
pasture can be. The cards I wish for
I buy, don’t wait for them to be sent to me. 
Each card stays unfilled out, stays unrenowned.
That’s my blank message from me to me.
Stow them in the second drawer down, 
to closely look through until I find my needs:
get well with its undying painted bouquet, 
bon voyage where the girl waves the ship away.