Standing at attention,

I keep my trap shut,

looking straight ahead,

except when I eyeball

a cute fire-engine red


I’m hungry for mail;

it keeps me feeling full.

Sometimes I think I’m a guard

at Buckingham Palace,

unable to move because of wounds

I suffered in the Hundred Years’ war.

I wait for the clang

of incoming mail.

I love double-clangers

who need to be sure

the mail drops down.

Some fools think

I’m a garbage can

and drop down beer bottles,

dog poop-bags, and dirty diapers.

Every now and then a wise guy

or adolescent prankster

drops a lit firecracker

that rumbles my bowels.

But that’s not as bad

as my Quebecois colleagues

who were victims

of the Separatist movement

enduring dynamite blasts

that ripped them apart.

The digital revolution

will render me obsolete.

Reserve a place for a mailbox

at the Smithsonian Museum.