Mudlark No. 48 (2012)

Post Office

Ahead of me leaning on the counter
because he needs to, explaining his mail’s 
not being forwarded. His box empty.  
Bills unpaid. Grandchildren’s cards wandering
somewhere in Texas. He repeats himself,
stammers, gray hair in strands separating
on his scalp like something thin and dry in
wind. It’s calm here. The almost attentive 
clerk is nodding, the postmistress busy 
on the phone, in touch with a postmaster 
far across the land. Someone will know, will 
parse the lost words on a screen this man has 
never seen, his name drifting there, the shape-
less sound of him opening like a vowel.

John Allman | Serious What’s Serious
Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)