The Kept Postcard

I found it in my mother's drawer,

the postcard I never sent.

My childish handwriting. My careful

message. The stamp is still there,

unused. The glue never touched.

The image is faded—

some place I thought I wanted to go,

some place that was supposed to show

something about who I might be.

On the back: I'm doing fine.

I hope you are too.

That's all I managed to write.

That's all I had to say.

The address was wrong.

Numbers too close. The street

misspelled. It wouldn't have arrived.

My mother kept it all these years.

In a drawer with other kept things.

The stamp will never be used.

The message will never arrive.

The place on the postcard

will never matter to anyone.

But my mother kept it anyway.