Mail Call
I live my life
on paper trails.
It stacks
back to back
in glowering towers.
It crouches and glares
in menacing reproach
or slides, glides
and scatters far and wide.
It clutches and hides
treasures, just beyond my reach.
It comes to me on rubber wheels
and leaves in black plastic bags
or dies in the shredder.
Put your ink to paper
and send it on to me.
Perhaps your words
will wrestle their way
into my heart.
Perhaps not.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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