Red-dust road winds away from mailbox
through perennial sorghum stubble
toward a phalanx of stunted Texas trees
of indeterminate and eternal species
Even nails which secure the box
to fencepost are galvanized
to last into next millennium
as if mail service will never cease
Stacey stands in front of the open box
the lid sagging defeatedly
in this panhandle dustbin wind
Grime clings to featureless skin
and the vaguely brunette strands
which trail from a pastel chiffon
knotted beneath the downcast chin
under a brutally indifferent blaze
She would rather be anywhere than here
standing yet again at the mailbox
another rent envelope in ashen hand
reading one more pointless letter
Her deliverance never comes
Each day brings an impotent sun
which falls upon evil and good
failing to illumine either
and then it yields to darkness
When shadows meet their maker
Stacey’s heart remains unmoved
has forgotten the words she awaits
believes the world owes her something
This is a deeply abiding conviction
bred through decades of Madison Avenue
and garish Hollywood gaslighting
She apes a Flannery O’Connor tragicomedy
having long since ceased examination
of its reason for being And so she waits
waits for her life to be changed Forever