I'm partial to this new custom
of letter exchange; by now,
his address on the front of envelopes
scrawls with the ease of a breath.
I lick the seal and find comfort in the taste.
I know the poem holds a day-and-a-half
of pleasure. Like a glass of sweetened tea,
soon the words slip away--the sugar
leaves him tired, ready to close the book.
We call this a new chapter in life.
He's moved on from the last few weeks,
started to look at the pamphlets his mother
has left by the fridge. From his last
letter, I know she uses Hershey Kisses
as paper weights for more
than just convenience.
In the next letter I send, I fold in a copy
of the songs we used to listen to.
I know he remembers the pronounced drum beats
when the words "Everlasting Last"
curled out of the radio--he knew to look
to his right, where I sat ready
to share eyes.
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