Sunday, September 28
poem for Sunday
The old woman in the post office had already found the fountain of youth.
She simply stayed, oh, six? Forever. I could not imagine how she got to this spot:
Simple as the neat letters and numbers on her envelope, clutched tightly, held in anxious waiting.
The envelope itself could have taken her hours, but it had to get there so soon, so soon.
“Can this get there tomorrow?” she asked the civil servant,
Who pulled out rate cards and form and began his spiel about tracking numbers.
She stared at him. “But will I get an answer tomorrow?” I wanted to give her an award.
She was the only person in the post office who knew.