Mail Call

Is it not weird that the mail mysteriously appears,

When you least expect it to,

Like a tube of art,

Where does it come from,

And where does it go after it is read,

No one knows this secret art form,

A guild of postmen will never tell its tale,

Simply put we will never know otherwise,

Sometimes it is good,

Sometimes it is bad,

Like the wind in the willows,

We never ask for more of it,

Until it appears at our doorstep,

Savagely wanting us to address it,

To another postal stop,

At our convivence,

Like that will ever happen.