her mail still comes

you spend your
days
on the front
porch.
waving at strangers.
your dog
is beside you.
sleeping.
curled on a blue
rug.
the mailman
says hello
and stops to talk
for a moment
or two, about
the weather,
about the game.
about the blisters
on his feet
from his new
shoes.
you sort through
the mail
seeing her name
still on a few
bills,
inquiries
for insurance
or newspapers.
letters you'll
throw away,
unopened.
to what point?
you imagine
that one day,
someone will get
your mail
as well,
read the name
and wonder who.