Now that you’re gone
I live for the post,
when your life spreads over my hand
in folded lines of air mail.
But the memory begins to gather dust
like furniture in a deserted hotel.
Words of your last letter
are inaudible.
At the mailbox in the desert
metropolis of Los Angeles
I still relish the tang of glue.
But the slot creaks
like the gate of a ghost town;
the box’s arm is hard,
it sticks to my hand, and after it closes,
only dust clouds rise and settle.
'