Small Favors

by Jenna Gale

Look, I don't want anything.
Only a cool, dark, and quiet place
to rest. A dream that makes
sleep impossible to exit, a little

dog who craves a hug
in the morning. Orange juice
with pulp.
I'd like music, too. Vivaldi, Randy

Newman, Mark Isham, The Rolling
Stones. All on CD, which is magic. So I
can have that, too. Magic.
I'd like flowers, as well.

They're everywhere, so it's no great request.
Find them in your lawn or go out and purchase
them, then devise an arrangement you find
pleasing.

And while you're at it, drop a Hershey's
Kiss in the box, several, perhaps, along with
Jujubes, and your own kisses, being sure you have
packaged them with diligence and care,

because they're as fragile
as the tragically pale blue we see
on some mornings. Don't forget the stamps--
you don't want the package returned.

And if you've the energy, and a moment
or two, send some words of your own
you've put down when you haven't had
enough of me, even in my absence. You can say

anything you like, as long as it's true. Oh,
and I want
some pasta, too. The kind that comes in its own
nifty little bag, the kind you drop in hot water

for just a minute. And mushrooms. Portabella is good.
And something for loneliness--an arm, a hand that
caresses, a comely smile

full of friendship and promises.

And perhaps
a bicycle
to ride home on.

*****

Jenna Gale is a poet from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She's married with four children, all redheads, which, she tells us, became the title for her first novel--now in search of a publisher--"Four Redheads."