Facing Facts about Postal Delivery

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

If he should send a letter home, no good

Would come of it.  Home vanished long ago

So even if a loving letter could

Be posted, it would reach the final no,

An undelivered No.  His mother dead,

 His father dead, the home sold on, to whom?

The long lost bedroom and the loving bed

They made him in, where man implanted womb

With maleness, all that furnishing is gone,

And who knows where?  The orange groves were killed

To build ten thousand homes.  There’ll be no dawn

For that kid’s home.  That warmliness is spilled.

  The smell of father and the fragrance worn

    By her are banished like the unicorn.

© Phillip Whidden