The Mailbox Decides

The mailbox decides

If you get his letters

It’ll give you the bills

And the magazines

And the packages you order

Late at night

When everything

Seems necessary

But as far as his letters go

Well…

It’s conditional

If he writes without assigning blame

Okay, here’s a letter

If he writes you love poems

You’re not getting those

They’re awful

The rhythms are all off

And the line breaks

Don’t make sense

If he says he’s sorry

The mailbox blacks out

Everything but that

And all you get is a piece of paper

With the words ‘I’m sorry’ on it

And black stripes

Everywhere else

The mailbox decides

How many more chances

He’s going to get

And, if it were completely up to the mailbox,

That number would be zero

The mailbox believes

That a first chance is a gift

A second chance is a privilege

And a third chance is a miracle

And the mailbox

Does not

Believe

In miracles

The mailbox waits for you to walk over every afternoon

And pick out the envelopes

Hoping to see something

From him

If it had eyes, it would roll them

But instead

It hugs his last letter

To its side

So that you don’t know

It’s there

This particular letter

Contains nothing but begging
And nobody likes begging

In the afternoon

The mailbox is actually doing him a favor

Even though he’d be furious

If he knew how much interference

Was going on

But the mailbox is yours

And so it is responsible for and to you

Not to him

Not to his tear-stained notebook pages

Without perforated edges

Or his cologne scented

Hallmark cards

With sloppy cursive

All over the inside

The mailbox has no obligation

To make sure you get

His grand essays

About love and forgiveness

In fact, the mailbox believes

That nobody should ever ask for forgiveness

Forgiveness should be something
You wait for

Patiently

Until the other person

Is ready

To give it to you

The mailbox watches you walk back to your house

Angrily shuffling through credit card offers

And a free copy of Taste of Home

And a little pang of guilt appears

That pops its flag up

For a moment

You turn around and almost catch the flag going up

And for a second, the mailbox thinks you might come back

And root through it

Finding that letter

That you shouldn’t be reading

Because all that begging

Will only ruin your day further

But you don’t come back

You keep walking

And the mailbox opens up the letter

And begins to read it over again

The begging still reads like begging

But in between the words

There was something else

A sort of exhaustion

A lack of, not effort

But the ability to create effort

There was a realization

Buried in the denial

This was over

It’s over

The mailbox

Folded the letter back up

And placed it in the envelope

Then let it slide down

So that you’ll see it

The next time you go

To get the mail

Provided the mailman

Doesn’t return it

Back to him

You may as well read it,

The mailbox thinks

Because it knows you

And it knows you’ll see

What’s hanging on the ends

Of all those sentences

Around the vowels

And between the commas

You’ll know what he knows

And you’ll write him back

You’ll seal it up

And send it away

Then it’ll be his mailbox

Holding onto something

And trying to decide

If it’s time

To let it go