The Letter Of Love by Michael Brownstein

The Letter Of Love

The old truck is a gash of rain,

hoarse and convoluted.

Late November,

one tree remains cloistered in bent brown leaf.

Nakedness wears well on you,

your hands construction work strong,

typewriter fingers.   

It’s just the two of us now,

the coughing radiator, 

a rasping of wood against wood.

Later, 

we will leave the cloud stung house for the day’s sun,

walk down Capital Avenue

through the neighborhood of the abandoned.

I cannot tell you this:

The broken windows and torn roofs are happy not to be crying.