The letters I haven’t written should be included
In any fair assessment of my accomplishments,
Like the letter telling my friend I doubt that his efforts
To enroll new voters in forgotten precincts
Will make much difference, given the money
Invested by profiteers in the status quo.
Not written and sent because doubt
Is available by the truckload, while belief
Is scarce enough to be measured in ounces
Here in a world prone to fatigue and inertia,
To whatever keeps me from bestirring myself
In causes that I admire. At least I’m ready
To honor those more active than I am.
At least I don’t choose to protect myself
From painful comparisons by converting my friend
To my preference for watching from the balcony.
Or consider the letter I haven’t written my niece
To inform her I think she’s foolish
For spending her summer down on the Gulf,
Postponing her choice of career so she can help
In clearing a beach of tar balls from a blown well.
Not a word from me predicting the sand
Will soon be filthy again, given the sway
Of oil interests in Washington. Instead,
I’m trying to think of her as my representative,
Fulfilling our family’s quota of work
For the common good so I can stay home
And write a few lines of commendation.
Here’s a young woman who seems to regard
Her sacrifice as an adventure.
For her the thrill of washing an egret by hand.
For her the thrill of watching
As it stretches its wings to the wind and flies off.