Going Postal

ice scrapes and slithers across the road
and hands uncovered feel the bite
of chill.

letters grasped, a droplet of ice
water running through the addresses
as the door is opened
to chaos.

the attendant works behind a counter
stacked with boxes, all
going to EBay.

no one moves in the line,
people frozen by circumstance, their
boots and galoshes dripping
ice granules to the wooden floor.

the old building creeks each
time a parcel drops, its contents
joggled, its destination
unknown.

closer together the line surges, but no one
is called, impatience breeds
evil and the clock
ticks on the wall.