by JS Gilbert
Have you,
of a morning,
been running,
when two mailboxes,
black, at the top of a rise,
align, and,
from the corner of your eye,
(if you squint)
nearly plausibly resemble a
tight-wound dog,
coiled and wagging,
anxious to bound and
crash with love,
lick the lonely from your face?
Yeah.
Me either.
I cradled him, fresh from a morning
surveying his kingdom, into my face;
smelled winter beneath his fur,
flowerbeds behind his collar.
Wondered at those who collect these
haughty envoys, risking the ire
of municipal codes and threadbare
trope of crippling loneliness
to surround themselves with smells of
life, now, beyond their grasp.
