Into heavy, scratchy stock,
A pen cuts my missive.
With a practiced flourish,
I commit my signature.

A shiny quarter,
Three stout nickels,
and four scrounged pennies later,

My postman,
Lisping woman with genuine joy
Accepts my envelope.  Her duty.

Our pact.
My trust.

thumbnail credit: "Mail" by Kevin Dooley (CC BY 2.0)

poetryDaniel C. Hodges