Sometimes on a bright day I like to pen something dark for contrast.
Thanks for your letter, I got it last week but I didn’t know how to respond.
Your life sounds so pleasant, with cattle and chickens, in a quaint little shed by the pond.
I chuckled aloud at the story you told ’bout the night you were hit by a deer;
’Twas so very strange ’cause I just cannot picture a noise in the night giving fear.
You’ve always seemed brave to me, always so mighty, that fear seems most incongruous
I guess that you made up the tale to charm me, for frights do not happen to us.
You asked how I’m doing; my travels were pleasant; I liked them right up to the end.
I hoped that the road would put troubles behind me, but you’re inescapable, friend.
I got too the pistol you sent with the letter. I get why you sent it to me;
But frankly I tell you, I don’t like the reason. My very first thought was to flee—
But I fled once before. And I still got your letter. It seems that I just cannot hide.
So now as I’m writting this letter back to you the pistol is strapped to my side.
So thanks for the letter. I guess next I see you we’d best pick a desolate place;
I don’t want no trouble from off-target bullets you’ll dodge with your uncanny grace.
Tell Margie and Ted a delayed happy birthday, and tickle the baby for me.
Thanks again for the pistol. I get why you sent it. Last time was the last time I flee.