It sits upon the table,
the white closed envelope,
as I contemplate;
shall I shan’t I, over and over
until my mind gives in.
My hand moves forward
clutches at its white innocent
outer coat to reveal within:
then stops, fear feeding every pore.
my hand stilled.
Good or bad, the news it holds?
Would I know, or maybe live today
and all my tomorrows with only
the knowing it sits upon the table
the white closed envelope.