Postcard Love
by M. F. B. Porter
It was sitting in my mailbox,
from a few days past-
a stamp in the corner
all the way from Belfast.
A castle on the front and
some scribbles on the back:
“Cape Town is next.
Hope you’re well. Gotta pack.”
They come every so often,
lately just here and there:
your paper thin words
you haphazardly share.
I pull out a card
from the box on my desk,
put my pen to the paper,
scrawling: “Don’t write back at my behest:
I can’t do this anymore.”
I don’t need another postcard
Collecting dust in my drawer.
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