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This is an email about anything.
You asked me to write it for you.
The problem inherent in writing like that
Is having no object nor clue.

I've nothing that calls for my poetry now,
No pressure, no stress, and no sound
Of rockets and buzzards colliding inside
As my brain's rusty sprockets go round.

Yes, I am calm, and yes I am cool
I write from a place so serene
That even the thought of bad news being brought
Does nothing to darken the scene.

And why, might you ask, have I entered this state,
And why does the sun shine so bright?
No matter what clouds try to darken my day,
Why am I feeling so right?

The answer lies out on the table exposed,
Not hidden, nor covered, nor slight,
But rather in view for all those to see,
Those whom I direct to the sight.

You are the only one I'll show the way,
You're the only for whom it holds weight.
You are the reason and you are the rhyme.
And You are the one at the table this late.

~A