I can never remember a time,
when people were still collecting stamps,
tabulating the symbols,
of letters not yet sent,
never to be sent,
many of them,
duplicates.
In my time,
in my book,
Iโm collecting just names,
and their faces,
the post office has moved,
from downtown,
everywhere,
and the faces,
the names,
are still waiting for lettersโฆ
Strolling down my collection,
a lone finger sends waves to the crowd,
moving back, moving forth, till it stops,
pointing one name at random,
Itโs the first on the list.
Open window,
And send:
Worried face,
A thumbs up,
Then a quick middle finger,
Laugh out loud on the side,
Zipper mouth, dollar eyes,
Throwing up,
Then an eye roll.
Goodbye!
I can never remember the time,
when I sent away my last letter.
The post office has moved,
from downtown,
everywhere.
Silent whisper,
has become our exchange.
With no words,
only signs,
intertwined,
disconnected,
by the beautiful,
grammar โฆ of emotion.
Halfspoken 