I just want . . . .
where’d they hide that turn I used to know?
thrown out by the rotary onto Sagamore . . . .
what looking never would’ve found . . . .
trying not to say my name . . . .
to remind you what to buy when you find a boy?
but how can I know for sure?
what should I wear to get my car repaired?
would he think more of me?
how should I know how much my oil should weigh?
would he charge me less?
what should I hum until the work gets done?
to think the man with the chevron shirt & the sears fatigues standing next to the machine that says don’t go ’round hungry might be inclined towards country?
if I let myself begin . . . .
to prove the clichés wrong . . . .
I sit down to rattle off in haste a few lines to you . . . My thoughts are with you often enough, & I make reckoning when we shall one day be together again–yet how useless it is to make calculations for the future. Still a fellow will.
Tom, I wrote you one letter April 21st, & then another April 26th. The first one must have gone all right, but I have not heard whether you got my second letter. I enclosed in it an envelope with my address on, in hopes you would write to me . . .
out of it somewhere . . . .