When the Mailbox
Went Empty

A polished khaki mailbox, stood post at the edge of his yard,
And every other morning, Old Pat would hand him a card,
A present from aunty Helen, a neighbour's wedding invite,
A reminder about the insurance, with a rate that wasn't quite right.

On Sundays, the local paper; on Wednesday, a Woman's Day,
On Friday, a pamphlet for groceries; but nothing on a Saturday.
Once a year, at Christmas time, he'd be dressed in a tinsel suit.
The mailbox, at the edge of his yard, stuffed full of festive loot.

He didn't mind the busy times, nor the weight of his usual duty,
He didn't mind that he had to hold, not keep, the passing booty.
He liked the puppy at his leg, that barked and wet his limb.
And too the pigeon on his head, that trod and cooed upon him.

When it stormed, he didn't shudder, just held his ground in the wet,
For all the wind, he'd never fall, to do so'd be a regret.
When the calm of winter'd come, he'd snoop and have a reading,
Of dreams and hopes, of newly betrothed, and other lives worth leading.

A polished khaki mailbox, stood post at the edge of his yard,
Every family been and gone, ten years since he last saw a card.
He'd heard about the emails, on the tv across the street,
Just like he'd heard the telephones, and Zoom calls on repeat.

On Sundays, he'd sit there waiting, for a paper that'd never come,
On Wednesday, he'd wish for a magazine, or a comic, or something fun.
Once a week, he'd watch with hope, as a van pulled into the drive,
But the parcel was left by the front of the door, waiting for them to arrive.

He didn't mind the quiet time, he tried not to overthink.
He didn't mind that his job was done, much faster than a blink.
He liked the purpose he once had, he'd reflect come demo day.
A polished khaki mailbox, like a letter, was sent away.