“Brooks was here”


Can you remember when we used to write letters


hunched over desks
in dim lamplight
doting on the word?


Maybe you don't
and neither do I,
but I like to imagine a man who might.


And I like to think of him
sitting there now
still writing that letter


or awaiting its return
from a lover out of reach.


Easy cursive dips
and ink stained thumbs,


something yet for him to smell and feel in
our grand new lonely world



that got itself in a big damn hurry.