Bored again,
listening to the gurgle and
babble of a baby boy,
entertaining his mother
as we wait in a line,
an endless line to the postmaster
and his endless rolls of 25-cent stamps
and Third Class ink pads.

Falling asleep on my feet,
the thank-yous fading
into yesterday, my thoughts
a whirl of electrons rambling,
dancing, short-circuiting,
with nowhere to go,
nowhere to stop.

Pushed ahead,
closer to the counter,
closer to the postmaster
and his black mustache,
breath of cigar,
bald spot reflecting a flourescent tangle
of overhead dust and cobwebs.

Jolted awake
as a cold blast
screeches through the door,
Huffing, puffing,
breaking through the line,
breaking our goodwill.

Gloves and boots and down coats
Huddle closer with unspoken shouts,
"quick, shut the door,"
and we reclutch unstamped letters
that, in a day or two, will be opened

- in some exotic place where
birds peck at the mud by the ocean,
scurry away from an incoming wave
and scoot back again as the wave subsides,
some place where sunbathers
grow brown and red and caress the sand.

- Bob Miller