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,”

they read.

 

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”

they read.

 

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,”

they read.

 

The standard postage for a postcard

is a heartbeat.

Two hearbeats

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,”

they read.

 

There are about a dozen postcards

addressed directly to the post office.

These are caressed,

fumbled,

bent, and tossed

through the labyrinths

of mailroom complexity

before they are finally

returned to sender.

This one to Virginia.

This one to Utah.