I am disgusted by the U.S. mail
its endless soul-crush pulp of catalogs,
utility bills, act now offers and sales
stinking with aggravation.
Just once I would like to reach in the slot
and come upon a stony hollow
or perhaps a tiny garden,
a plot filled with pint-sized animals:
token birds, a little hairless cat
and a mountain range behind it,
a small wall of shadow
to gaze at as I loaf the evening
on a petite porch, a bit of loaf,
cubed cheese, an apple from my tiny tree,
nothing major just a light supper
on chippy, earthenware dishes.
This will be the depth of my story,
the stunning extent of my smile:
a scattered few pinprick dung drops,
some night weather, no envelopes.
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