There’s no post in the box
At the top of the drive.
The sun won’t write us
‘fore the clouds arrive.

Leaves and plastic
Get caught in the rail.
We pull them out
So the gate won’t fail.

But who walks by
Or on bikes roam
Beyond the corner
From where we call home?

We can only hide far away
Behind the bougainvillea’s green,
In our bricks and glass,
In the spaces between.

And still no letter
And yet far better.