The mailbox was buckled
From so many unread words
Being forced through its tired
Opening.

Voices guffawed at the
Blaring junk papers that
Lined it, scrunched with the
Residue of dusty carlessness.

How many letters had simply
Been thrown in the dustbin?

How many envelopes were
Something more than stark
Black words on unfeeling
Paper?

The mailbox knew it was
Cruel, but it missed the
Times of war.

It missed the tear-stained
Paper and the words that
actually
                  meant
                                         something.