Post

Sushing down the street in the quietest shoes,

clutching an envelope roasting with views.

A yard and a half of lost art within.

Sealed in gum, a heart prized in.

***

The day melts through me. I am weary. I am worn.

Still, my beat strolls forward unfettered by scorn.

I wonder if perhaps I am seeping screams?

Are they sufficiently congealed in this scab of dreams?

***

If I picked, I know, I could make it bleed.

So... I have plastered it, for ease of read.

Though considerate to the very last word,

I know no sentiment shall pass unheard.

***

Inside a villanelle drips through each page.

Sharp of teeth and quiet in rage.

For I can now speak the words of the free.

Pop them in the post and head home for tea.

***

The post-box waits like a lock-jawed gimp.

I feed its face, its passing pimp.

And there it was.

Posted.

Gone.

And here I am.

Moving.

On.

***

Head held high through "there there" sighs

and yawns of smiles from passers-by.

Looks that ask - have I lost my way?

Yes.

I have.

But I have had my say.

***

Author's notes:

This poem is the second in a series of poems exploring the afterlife of a career.

Below is the first.