Mailbox
Your mouth was a mailbox
into which you deposited large parcels of food.
And when you departed with your usual
haste,
it was as if
you’d gone delivering them to their destination.
Only, of course, you had no true itinerary.
You always returned, blasé,
till you yourself were a post office,
closed for business on a white bed,
against a white wall,
your dulled eyes no longer telegraphing their tales.
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