Office of good intentions.

In the office of good intentions, I maintain a small desk
In a dusty corner where paper scraps and clips are strewn
(Some might say artfully) waiting a firm purpose to proceed
with one choice item from a slate of worthy candidates.

As ear-plugged mariners of myth I sail straight on lest
Hearing plaintive pleas, "Attend to me," I am marooned
Upon a beach all littered with a billion sandy beads
But not a pearl among them bright enough to serve as bait.

Except the upper left of a faded envelope flags the eye,
Alerts the will to take a starboard tack and that be right
A course to glide across the finish line waving one thing done,
One thing expertly done, a crafted letter to an aged priest.

In flawless French as homage to his "lieu natal" was my reply
As much to show I had recalled his teaching years ago despite
It taking way too long to write, then ten weeks later, stunned.
The letter came back stamped in red "Decede" (deceased).