Pastel Postcards.

by Guinotte Wise.

The rain rushed along the gutters
turned the leaves a tarnished silver
so she gave the boy a shoebox full
of postcards to relieve his cloistral
aura, old postcards she’d not seen
for years, her grandmother’s, the
boy sulked, pulled one out, puzzled
over the people in raincoats and
tuna fisherman hats, wet in black
and white, “Me and Hazel, wish you
were here” Why would they impose
the rain on others, the sign said Maid
O’ The Mist. He dropped it on the
carpet and pulled another. It was a
huge fish on a wagon, comic book
lettering said “They grow ’em big
here!” The writing on the other side
did not explain. “Will be finish w
job couple days, back in good ol
KC by wed.” Runes to the boy,
until the set of cards in hand tinted
pastels, skies of mysterious violets
yuccas of sand and ochre these
were the colors that spoke to him
and eventually pulled him to Los
Angeles where he walked the
streets and saw those colors
through Raymond Chandler
RayBans and he spoke out of
the side of his mouth to those
he interviewed and roughed up
in his quest to sit atop the sign
of Hollywoodland the ultimate
postcard that drew him to the
demise he’d always foreseen
but first he ate at the restaurant
shaped like a hat snapping a
white napkin over his lap.


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