Z. Cohen

Just before 3:00pm,

The golden light of the sun is behind me as I walk home.

It’s waiting there, in the plastic USPS bin that sits on our stairs.

The mail is here.

I lift the jumble of papers in both hands

And slap them on the counter when I get inside.

Three or four bills, a postcard for a heating service,

A newspaper filled with coupons, a finance magazine,

One personal letter with loopy handwriting, addressed to my mother,

A large manila envelope, and a small pink one, containing perhaps a card.

Nope. Nothing for me.

I bring the interesting correspondence to my father’s desk,

Where he sits staring at a computer screen, uninterested in the day’s find.

I leave the boring letters behind for later.

And so continues my daily mail ritual.

Now I actually have a reason to check the mailbox.

I’m expecting a letter.

But I leave the mail on the stairs

And let someone else take it in.