Monday, January 9, 2017

HUNGER, PAIN, AND THE U.S. MAIL

Every day,
it's there.

Furled, hung-up,
crumpled, foisted
into containers.
Everywhere.

Perhaps, later—coffee
cup stained, strewn
across the table, whatever.
Yesterday's

all mixed up
with today's.

I really
don't care.

I notice it. Sure.
Deal with it. Maybe.
Or don't bother yet,
since—every day

dirty envelopes,
pristine paper,
impeccable streaks of
bleak midnight letters

are there, lightly might-mattering
(someone wants something,
you're someone's problem)
or literally smeared to nothing.

Either way, fine.
Every single day.

Really.
Every single day.

But what bothers me—is
why doesn't

anything else
feel that way?

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