You are the last post office in town.
The only mail to enter and exit your walls
are the existential postcards of nostalgics.
“I miss you like
snakes miss legs,”
Long streams of all things unrequited
pour through the doors.
The mail handlers sort each piece
with the earnestness of ice merchants
each falling in love no longer
than 5 seconds at a time,
or else risk frostbite.
This one off to Montana,
this one off to Colorado.
“I think about you the way
the sky thinks about blue”
Each handler is eager to clock out,
to go home to their empty apartments.
My P.O. Box in your lobby
is usually empty,
but I drop by every day
to make sure.
I linger in there much longer than I should.
No one is allowed to stay too long
because you are afraid that they, too,
will be postmarked
and sent away
with the rest of the mail.
This one off to Idaho,
this one off to Oregon.
“You’re the reason
I can’t get on airplaines,”
The standard postage for a postcard
is a heartbeat.
for overnight delivery.
There are those who give their entire heart.
I never send postcards anymore
because I can no longer afford it.
“We have a boat full of helmsmen,
but not a navigator in sight,”
There are about a dozen postcards
addressed directly to the post office.
These are caressed,
bent, and tossed
through the labyrinths
of mailroom complexity
before they are finally
returned to sender.
This one to Virginia.
This one to Utah.