Part of me has missed
The taste of glue,
Forgotten how it feels
To be a part of correspondence,
Of kitsch cards,
Never having travelled anywhere
In so long;
Still reliant on a friend
To explain the postal system,
The personal touch
Outweighing, for me,
The glibly perfect impersonality
Of Information:
The words having different weight
And price -
90 cents per letter;
The halting uncertainty given by
One person to another
Being also, I guess,
The point of four postcards,
Lying waiting in a black bag,
Now destined
Not to arrive home
Before I do.
I'll clear the way for you, cards;
My unwelcome return absorbing all,
Leaving you nothing but anticipation.
