The old man lives in the condo on the corner
He comes out every morning at seven
And walks to his mailbox
He checks the mailbox by looking at it
Sometimes bending down, to stare it square in the face.
Then he goes back inside.
He comes out again at seven-fifteen and goes to the mailbox
He looks at it, standing first on one foot, then the other
He never opens the mailbox – it’s way too early for mail.
Perhaps he is thinking of that letter from an old lover
That he wished he had never received,
Or he is inspecting for the tiniest change, a spot of rust
Anything to tell him convincingly that time is indeed engaged
That he is not going to ever read that letter again.
From a distance, I can see that no part of him can be delivered,
The mailbox and he are indistinguishable.