Mailbox Extinction

Tear by on a Friday Doing 75 down Sharon Road Short cut up north through the federal woods Back here No one knows from US-127 About the clear-cutting as far as the eye can see Or the heads of hills chopped off and rolling And curves of road that’ve lost their will To bend A mailbox shakes in my scissor wake With no house or driveway Making claim of it Hangs On to the side of the road Choked with scrolls of yellowed paper Its little red arm Up Flailing In my rearview mirror.