Each day the mailman rides
to a dutiful stop, slides his hand

into the small aluminum tunnel
of our mailbox.

I wonder if the air feels differently
than it did a few years back —
all the emails zipping past him
like no-see-ums.

Sometimes I miss
seeing someone's script

make its way across the envelope
with the sure sense 
of the steady straight line,

and then unfolding the letter,
the slight shadows from
the creases as I read it,

reminding me 
for a moment of who 
had folded and tucked the letter 

into the envelope, 
sealed it with their tongue,
and carried it to a mailbox

where it sat with all
the other letters in a long silence
that could've lasted for days. 


From Second Skin (Wind Publications, 2010)
Used with the author's permission.