All the mail
carriers lounging in the corner
of smoke. Meanwhile there’s not one piece
of even junk
mail in my box. The transference
of my father’s
photo from a filled blank book to a fresh
is complete. I know the wind
chill is brutal, but
what happened to that unofficial motto?
Neither snow nor rain
nor heat nor gloom
of night stays these couriers
from the swift
completion of their appointed rounds.
I can hear the radiators whisper incessantly—beware
what you wish for.
Note: The unofficial motto is an inscription on the New York General Post Office located on 8th Avenue and 33rd Street.