I don’t know when I will stop
expecting a letter
instead of all these bills
and flyers for pizza and men
who wash windows in kilts.
There is no one in particular
I think might be writing me
but I cannot help
the hopefulness
the unreasonable optimism
that the clang of the mailbox
means somebody held me in the nest
of their thoughts.
So old-fashioned
like milk in glass bottles,
like handkerchiefs.
One day I will try to explain to my son
the appeal of anticipation
in an instant world
that there is sweetness
in the wait.