One day the gift arrives — outside your door,
Left on a windowsill, inside the mailbox,
Or in the hallway, far too large to lift.
Your postman shrugs his shoulders, the police
Consult a statute, and the cat meows.
No name, no signature, and no address,
Only, “To you, my dearest one, my all . . .”
One day it all fits snugly on your lap,
Then fills the backyard like afternoon in spring.
Monday morning, and it’s there at work —
Already ahead of you, or left behind
Amongst the papers, files and photographs;
And were there lipstick smudges down the side
Or have they just appeared? What a headache!
And worse, people have begun to talk:
“You lucky thing!” they say, or roll their eyes.
Nights find you combing the directory
(A glass of straw-colored wine upon the desk)
Still hoping to chance on a forgotten name.
Yet mornings see you happier than before —
After all, the gift has set you up for life.
Impossible to tell, now, what was given
And what was not: slivers of rain on the window,
Those gold-tooled Oeuvres of Diderot on the shelf,
The strawberry dreaming in a champagne flute —
Were they part of the gift or something else?
Or is the gift still coming, on its way?