Postbox

She shouts from downstairs

But not to me.

No.

It’s a delivery for a Mr. I’m Married To You.

He sends a reply back;

First class, of course.

 

She opens it,

Reads it,

Cries.

Pours out her soul to the air around her

Until it turns blue.

Crude.

Rude.

 

He laughs at her desperation,

Her misery.

Oh, how he loves the speedy service of words.

Vicious words.

 

She’s at his feet again

Like he is the Almighty

Come down to Earth

To wreak havoc and pain.

 

Old Testament.

 

The Red mail box outside

The house is full again.

 

Time for Mr. Postman to deliver more abuse.