The Post Office is gated, guarded, barred.
Each citizen may bring a single page
To be reviewed, then stamped, if shapely in
Calligraphy and spelling. Homonyms
Are disapproved, ambiguous, like frocks
On sailors or hard rain on sunny days.
Postcards were okay last week. This week, though,
Implying other places, they are less
Bland, so the young and paleolithic old,
Who don’t know what they doing or are done,
Attempt them, but with bogus names and towns.
Postage expensive, paper products rare,
Ink, it turns out, is nothing more than mud
Thinned to the point of near transparency.
Return addresses? SASEs? No.
Corporal punishment, defunct, this spring
Envelopes crime: the grave, the good, the gone
Cannot petition. Sign language alone
Conveys too little of their superscript.
Rumors of nibs cannot be verified,
And cartridges descend on public squares.
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