Mail Lady
The van idles: inside its cage
she hops like a grackle
from dashboard to counter.
Lady seer, shuffling the motley,
the significant and trivia.
Not 'all seeing', a Cassandra nevertheless,
revealing the stamped
and foreseeable.
A flick of her wrists
between each numbered box,
and we enter an unread limbo
until we open that tin mouth
reaching for bolts out of the blue,
and delayed news from snails.
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