Thank-You Notes Under the vigilant eye of my mother I had to demonstrate my best...

Thank-You Notes
Under the vigilant eye of my mother
I had to demonstrate my best penmanship
By thanking Uncle Gerry for the toy soldiers–
Little red members of the Coldstream Guards–
And thanking Aunt Helen for the pistol and holster,
But now I am writing other notes Alone at a small cherry desk
with a breeze coming in an open window,
thanking everyone I happen to see
on my long walk to the post office today
and anyone who ever gave me directions
or placed a hand on my shoulder,
or cut my hair or fixed my car.
And while I am at it,
thanks to everyone who happened to die
on the same day that I was born.
Thank you for stepping aside to make room for me,
for giving up you seat,
getting out of the way, to be blunt.
I waited until midnight
on that day in March before I appeared,
all slimy and squinting, in order to leave time
for enough of the living to drive off a bridge or collapse in a hallway
so that I could enter without causing a stir.
So I am writing now to thank everyone
who drifted off that day
like smoke from a row of blown-out candles–
for giving up your only flame.
One day, I will follow your example
and step politely out of the path
of an oncoming infant, but not right now
with the subtropical sun warming this page
and the wind stirring the fronds of the palmettos,
and me about to begin another note
on my very best stationary
to the ones who are making room today
for the daily host of babies,
descending like bees with their wings and stingers,
ready to get busy with all their earthly joys and tasks.