The Letter

And in the end, all that is really left
Is a feeling—strong and unavoidable—
That somehow we deserved something better. 
That somewhere along the line things
Got fouled up. And that letter from whoever’s 
In charge, which certainly would have set 
Everything straight between us and the world,
Never reached us. Got lost somewhere. 
Possibly mislaid in some provincial station. 
Or sent by mistake to an old address 
Whose new tenant put it on her dresser 
With the curlers and the hairspray forgetting 
To give it to the landlord to forward. 
And we still wait like children who have sent 
Two weeks’ allowance far away 
To answer an enticing advertisement 
From a crumbling, yellow magazine,
Watching through years as long as a childhood summer, 
Checking the postbox with impatient faith 
Even on days when mail is never brought.