Post

Inside the front entry, the large box
leans against the wall, a cowboy with cardboard skin.
I watch it carefully, expecting something
to happen, maybe a tapping from inside--
a man trapped, sent by post to my house.
The mail order catalogue said four to six weeks;
it's only been one.

I wait Indian style in front
of the brown rectangle, clutching garden shears
tightly in my hand. When a strange man
is expected to call, a single girl
age twenty-nine, keeps an eye out.
Luckily for him, I am only twenty-eight.

- posted by jennifer joy staab @ 6:32 PM