Poste Restante

Before long, I’ll leave these shores,

disguise myself as an eccentric,

and write colourful letters

from Istanbul.

I’ll post them fortnightly,

unfamiliar stamps on the envelope,

at the post office

nearest the Topkapi.

I’ll write them in a nearby coffee shop,

ensuring each missive is sticky

from the baklava I have

with hot, sweet tea in a glass.

Some letters might stick to others

and be catastrophically mis-sorted,

so they arrive in Hobart

instead of Halifax.

Each letter will bear the name of someone

I once knew, or loved, or hated,

or met once on a bus

to Huddersfield, on a rainy day.

And one fine day,

when I’ve long had

my last sticky pastry,

someone might reply.

This communique will be kept

post restante for as long

as is customary by Orzan,

my friend, behind the counter.