There are days when you’ll check the mailbox
two or three times before mail arrives,
white squares of useless information
promising to make life better or cheaper,
telling how much TV you’ve watched,
how many minutes you have left,
that the house is yours for one more month.
Surely any good news will be postponed.
But sometimes comes the smallest swatch
from a far-off desk written in real ink
with a stamp placed warmly, fondly
in the right-hand corner. Hello, it says.
Wish there was more to be said, that this letter
could bring some acceptance in the house
you’ve lived in for years, in the life you’ve had
for much longer. Because later, when it’s dark
and the kids are asleep, you’ll find yourself
opening the front door to an empty box,
hoping to find whatever it is
you think is missing.