With apologies to Charles Simic
A mail truck goes down the aisle
of empty mail trucks.
At the end of the long line
a bored operator lifts it high into the air
and goes for lunch.
The victim twists in the wind,
a tragedy in remaking.
The morning feels like the end of days.
The heavens do their part,
casting deep shadows on the yard,
on rows of vacant vehicles.
Among them, an almost-empty satchel
holds a dozen hand-written letters
huddled close, as if they too
might be given wings.