Tardy postcard

When they demolish your house, 
I want to be there.
When they treat you for death, 
I want to hear that you feel great.
When that guy beans you with a baseball, 
I want to be able to say: Go Get ‘Im, Tiger.
When you forget who you are, 
I want to follow you from the hospital
to the shelter. 
I will be the one 
with the balloon 
that is red and fat 
and no one knows 
is really a satellite
for watching you. 
I want to join you on another
earth that looks just like this one, 
only smaller, and live
in a beautiful house–the size,
the feel, of a warm, kind toaster.

Ricky Garni is a writer and designer living in North Carolina. He is presently completing a collection of tiny poems (I mean, these are teensy!) entitled WHAT’S THAT ABOUT, dutifully banged out on Faye Hunter’s 1971 Smith Corona typewriter in purple cursive typeset, and dedicated with great affection to her memory.