Your Last Letter

The smiles you mailed me lie pasty
on the page, although there is no smudge
on your pale blue paper, in too good taste,
charged on the credit card to the stationer.

You speak to me as if I was
some composition teacher, judging
each word, checking for errors of
diction, incorrect spelling.

I must reply by return mail;
you need my answers, but not my thought;
my pen runs over the blank page,
dipping itself in insincere ink.