What must my neighbors have thought of me,
staring at the letter that was in my front pocket,
the top half covered with my shirt?
You know I am not good at concealing what should be hidden.
I laugh just remembering how the corners jabbed my ribs,
and the tape closing the envelope rubbed against my skin.
The mailman only came in the afternoons,
but I waited for him since this morning,
sitting on the curb closest to my mailbox.
The evening sun was hot,
but there are hotter suns.
I realized this when I thought of angels.
Car exhaust and fertilizer distanced itself from me,
separated by flower-scented breezes and April showers.
The sky placated me with clouds the shape of Teddy bears,
and the grass allowed me sleep as long as I dreamt.
The mailman will come,
and I will greet him with a smile.
I can't trust just anyone with this letter
it has the other side of the country to go to.
It can't get lost in the horde of mail sent every day.
This letter may not be anything special,