Empty box.

My driveway hasn't held a mailbox
in years, I think some construction
worker knocked it down; now,
I receive the newspaper wrapped
in weathered plastic at 5 p.m. sharp.
That's too late to truly stay on
top of the news; by then, everything's
eroded.

The only form of communication is
my email, but each hour when I
log in, there is not that familiar
name, (place initials here).
My inbox is lonely, lost without
your voice and all the links.

You never ask me how I am
at random times or in the middle
of those winter nights, when you
know my demons try to slay me.

(I never receive anything, from you).

-
Written 12/03/14 @ 8:13 PM