Deja

16

The post is not dead.
That realm of summer which refuses to be said,
We've chosen to write and post off instead.
In July, we near the post office door,
its facade brick-red.

Soldiers returned home from tour,
Grandmothers bearing gifts,
Long-distance love (sealed with a kiss)
Approaching the red-brick filled contour,
Our many heads frequent the post office door.

Out and in, our lowered heads
(Shielding the late summer sun)
Frequent the post office door. Better
late than never to get the job done,
whether sending bill, or postcard, or letter:
The post is not dead.