The moisture from the stamp I

never licked is evaporating in memory.

The postcard has on it an image of an Egon Schiele painting that

is a bit shy of propriety but not tastelessly so.

On the back, words, are written, words

you will in time forget, not necessarily

Because you feel you have to, no,

you tell yourself that, no,

Because you want to, you

Want to have to and

for Konch

a substitute for okay.

In my kitchenette cupboard there are no cans of tomatoes and

no soup, there is no brown sugar and no packets of tea.

In it there are no cans or cups or food at all.

There are however books stacked high, some

art of mine and others gifted to me and one bought, and

Atop that work lies a shoebox with that postcard and perhaps nearly a dozen more

- also never sent - I have rarely opened it and

nearly every time I attempted an opening I

closed it before airing the contents.

One day - I do not plan to mark it on my calendar -

its contents will be burned and

the ashes will go as they were back out into the world.

By now I should not even need note that my signature would be preceded by XO in multiple.

For now that will have to suffice as Theo Konrad Auer