Post

The empty letterbox across from me
Suggests, by signage, it has been so long;
Which makes me wonder if there possibly
Might be old mail in it, which might belong
To some more ancient age, when pens were king,
Men wrote (and women too) not by machine
But with their hands, and mail was everything.
But I, alas, must trust it was wiped clean
Of all such fond debris when last in use,
And therefore all my speculations are
But folly, and the poor result of loose
Ideas, hitched unto a falling star.
And yet I must admit I did not look
So there might yet be mail within the nook.