Mrs. Victoria Mustapha, I Too Could Use a Hand
by Mary E. Whitsell
As pebbles find their way
into my shoes
And errant thoughts will wander
through my head
so too do all these wild appeals
these desperate and sad attempts
to garner trust and wherewithal
find their own way — blind and confused —
into my e-mail.
Dearly esteemed they call me —
(And oh, would that I were!)
They spin afresh their painful tales of woe
of jealous rivals, life's vicissitudes,
calamities and misery befallen.
Hard times and fiendish relatives,
double-crossing friends, dishonest politicians
have cruelly done them in.
Rich treasures now lay hidden
just waiting to be claimed.
Nerve and spirit, steadfast Christian strength
are needed to recover them.
The dispossessed can but wait and hope!
Know this, my lost, beseeching friends:
I too am stranded and have strayed
and been betrayed
and long for treasure that is rightfully mine,
I too wait hopefully,
pathetically, for mail to come.
For checks and acclamation
for praise and compliments
and homage long past-due.
But I don't write to you.