I wrote letters, or so I thought.
My mailbox wept for more than ads,
telling the world what it’s lacking;
divided between getting and spending.
No outgoing box for my letters tonight.
I can walk across lines of non-traffic,
as canoes navigate bubbles and overhead bridges.
Nothing overhead but the weight of rain.
Fatigued by curbs and signal lights
my dried eyes glaze over the box
now: a fact that no letters are coming.
My mailbox weeps for my lack of labor.
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