Dear M.,

Dear M.,

wish you were here – the blossom cherry trees snowed under gaudy, men as boys in shorts all happy dogs with new haircuts, all set against the ponder or wonder, the empty espresso cups, the stranger sideways looks in cafes, on the other side of the window the gnarled tree stretching past its set ways, shuddering a little deeper into the soil, no mention of lost face, inside chairs scrape floors, chatter traffic home and back, commute as longing, his pretty hands waiting to move on the table, a second place café on a third place street somewhere near another place, if you look for it –

Love, R.