Mind mail is stacked high in spite of my state
as an empty box, white flagged for surrender.
Unfilled, unfulfilled, unknown postmark.

I can’t seem to sort out the mess.
People wait in line to see what will happen to me.
Packages of pain pile up from so much of nothing
from nobody particular – and most of all you.

Buried beneath the no news is good news bull
I pace postal-style. You do not ring twice; indeed,
not even once. Relentless, you trudge on,
frozen, through weather fickle and fair

Only to pursue me with regulations
inadvertently violated and to inform me
in invisible ink of another rate hike coming
one day soon, just around the bend.

I imagine stacks of empty envelopes, sealed
with spit, sent flying through time to taunt
my silly steadfast belief in forever stamp
of love. This paper-cut heart

Will survive such slicing silence, swoosh
of thin-air mail sucked into vast void, waiting
for proper procedures to be pronounced, our
communication at last marked ‘valid’

By you, Mr. Postman. Let’s clear the air,
create a little room for first class communication.
What could be more priority than that?