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.
Copyright © Robert Trezise Jr. | Year Posted 2024
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