Buried Alive
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An exercise in alliteration!
(Under a Sea of Junk Mail)
If I don't stay on top of it,
it piles on top of me.
Sorted, shredded, stacked
stashed
in boxes, baskets, bureaus
bulging bags of trash.
It multiplies,
takes on a life of its own,
moves from one stack to another
like shifting sands
on the seashore.
How do mail carriers
deal with daily delivery to
vast volume of victims
such as I?
Tall trees,
sawn, sliced, sanded
reshaped, reborn
their sawdust sent
to be
bleached, blended, rolled
separated, slued
pressed, painted, printed
then
presented
to me.
Help-I'm drowning!
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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