Post

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)

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Perfect People

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Pretentious? Hypocritical? Pretentiously Hypocritical.