On the Son of a Postal Worker

You’d think he’d be more
reliable, but he’s always late,
never with what you asked for
and always an excuse. Forget
about when it’s raining, you won’t
see him for days; he’s far too
busy tending to his own express parcels,
sorting through his own first-class letters.
Everything he is given, he retains; he knows
how to disappear through transaction,
becoming less himself and more the message
he carries; he keeps to himself
things we’d rather see
in another’s hands.

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