i could never be a mailman,
not because i am not a man
but because i could not resist
opening up the packages
addressed to people who weren’t
me–once a box-shaker, always
a box-shaker, and that would be
your new china set, tinkling as
i tossed the package to you,
already torn open. “it’s a bit cheap,”
i’d say in your sister’s voice.
i’d be there in my saggy blue pants
with the latest season on dvd,
saying, “they all die at the end.”
or i’d be on your doorstep
holding out the new waffle maker,
saying in your mother-in-law’s
voice, “you can’t cook anyway.”
the worst would be the heart
i would press into your hand,
saying in your lover’s voice,
“you can have it back. i don’t
need it anymore.”


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