I enjoy letters that I can 
touch, feel, that say 
love in handwriting and toast 
my fingers when I lift, warm, 
stuffed envelopes from the oven of a hot summer 
tin mailbox 
that in spring has been cleansed by rain 
(coming from the sky and my eyes) and  
messages I grab onto, whose paper has been softened but 
not lessened, 
by sifting, touched with skin, passed from hands of 
real people and sealed by 
mouth watering that had been 
sweetened with aftertastes of cinnamon and 
mocha from a café where 
friends had gone to 
pass a few hours, 
- just talking.
As I wait for a 
mail man (empty-handed), sun tans, 
my heart 
turns semi-sweet, holding in 
my mouth the chocolate that 
some women 
replace with love,
while I stand, melting, in the 
street steam.