poetry

Mr. Postman; A poem

I’m sorry but, I don’t have a return address. He just left it on my porch all shattered and I was just wondering if he could fix it.

Mr. Postman, I know who sent it. I need him fix it. It beats and rattles in my chest and I wonder around town hoping I might find someone to fix it.

I asked the clock maker and the tech guy, but this was out of their fields.

Mr. Postman, won’t you tell  me where to send it. Is their a place where stick and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt.

Mr. Postman, I am sorry but I don’t have a return address. I don’t know how I would send it anyway, with it writhing in my chest all. Rejection pumps through like blood. I thought about packaging myself up and set myself on his porch but I thought that he might not like too much of me.

Mr.Postman, help me.

 

 

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