 I heard a whisper telling me to complete this story how she dreamt besides her grandmother that sometime she will gather up roses and take care of those who have problems with their skin. Are you the one chosen to whom the angel has also spoken? Some could be patient and better talk to calm the mind night after day day after night in a new way of healing. Many years after you find your yard littered with oranges and walk the summer grass now color of brown tea and pomegranate. There was an instant time when you have to do is talk about dreams and know that everything would come into place as if finding the pattern of a jigsaw puzzle. Now this is your birthday. If God is saying something surely you have not missed it. We were looking at one another and we are charmed at how it it is easy to talk with strangers. Swap up in the peace of our rediscovered language. I guess the angel that banished all those dark spirits away from the easy word would find you as a good helper. How to heal the skin that curl up over the summer heat burning in leper source that split the flesh after the earth bloom in spring. One becomes complacent as leave the sun to make its final act of con conflagration leaving everything to chance. But there is a guide somehow that suits the furious of every heart and spit out the charred memories like seeds. Sometimes one felt adrift in the world and curious us to its directions so often like the arrows and swords of old prayers and poems trying to find its moorings. How you would stand for yourself if there's no angel in this struggle amidst these temptations and vanities. How can you turn from a December night with its disappointing darkness. But expect another day after looking into the accurate stars shining over the earth. You can say you're still lying besides your grandmother's arms. This thought came to me. Where were you then? Is it the word outside the windows or if it is not in the word where is it then? After all that sleep that hangs over your head and leaves all the fevers it must be safer to feel that he is always there as if he has never left us for a second. That's it. One point, one last. The title of the poem is black cat on a white truck take the heartbeat of a poet strumming on a metallic guitar. A meek jogger belting out a love song with a mouth full of stones. Take out the nails of the floors and the wood from bleeding. A love lord notes after taking out the garbage before dawn. Your husband's ashes in the smoke box and the poems unread. Those purple Russian kale and the balsam pear are refused to eat. The cardboard boxes in the attic after the house is not habitable. Those coins in the walls are rusty after they lost value in the market. The black cat on the white truck is sprayed painted with love. The adults love to fondle it as they close their guns to the sheriffs. No way they're going to find their directions after a long journey. The white truck was a version of a submarine with wheels on the wharf. From the depths they say it looks like another whale on land. A mama that found a place to throw his huge body around. A black cat is superstitious enough as it tries to talk her way around. Take your time as we have downsized without the gym to play around. Take the heartbeat of a poet strumming on a metallic guitar. The black cat murmuring to go with the lyrics from a bloated man. Take your time as we open our blank wallets to welcome your song, to discover your cheating on us, find your message to blend. Thank you.