Carol Hart

 
Empty Envelope

I took down a forgotten book.
Something came fluttering out—
an envelope, addressed to me
in careful Palmer penmanship
by a dead hand. It’s empty.
As if a ghost came to my room
and then refused to speak.

I took down the forgotten book
shortly before bed, and I dreamt,
unsurprisingly, of dying. The years
have browned the envelope with age.
It’s brittle, it’s torn, but it guards
its secrets well, mute as a granite
slab inscribed with name and date.

The House on the Corner

I remember him telling me
his house was all he had,
besides his car, his only asset.

Although I didn’t like him
I was sorry. Had I met him
when a young man, not yet

soured by disappointments
that woke him up at 4 a.m.,
sweaty and self-loathing—

met the up-and-coming man,
keen, capable, but morose,
set free only by his drinking …
 

Carol Hart earned a PhD in English from the University of Pennsylvania, which somehow led to a career as a health and science writer. Her poems have appeared in Arion, Eclectica, Paperback, Roanoke Review, and Southern Poetry Review. 

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