late night to the P.O.

it's cold.

frigid, in fact.

the wind is up.

the stars are clustered

in the way

they do on nights like this.

you almost feel

as if you could

grab a handful

if your arms were long

enough.

you put on your coat,

your scarf,

your hat.

where are you going?

the post office

of course.

the envelope licked

and stamped.

there is no one here

to ask where you might

be headed at this hour,

in this weather,

which makes it all the more

reason,

to go without worry

of when you might

come back.