I practised deep inhaling, hoping, like you, to float.
You travelled so light, your shoes
never lined up for cleaning
on Saturday nights.
I imagined a flutter of postcards, you summoning me.
The thick thunk of junk mail
daily hit the floor,
deposited by the wheezing postie.
I named a constellation after you.
It’s still up there,
just the other side
of the street lights’ lid.
© Joan Lennon