he's sleeping
finally, and i grab
the half size envelope
and keys,
open the rarely used
front door,
emerging through
a curtain of moths.
it's unnecessary,
the letter,
although the postage
is hardly wasted.
sometimes letters
just need to be mailed
if only for that purpose.
my cigarette won't light
until i'm there at the
mailbox cluster
there at the end of the street,
it's hardly smoked
by the time i disappear
back through the moths
at the door, home.
it was nothing i couldn't have said,
you know,
in person.
but sometimes words
are sweeter that way.