The Postmaster

In a felted edged envelope
he found himself. His childhood self,
in a makeshift, make-believe, post office set.

He was the postmaster, then
with steamed off stamps,
torn scraps for notepaper.

He’d crayon letters,
all twenty six. And progressed
to rearrange them

into wish lists and dreams
he’d post to the future.
But his message got lost

in transition, translation.
He got lost
at the bottom of the postbox.

He got lost
in bills of responsibility,
got pigeon holed until

he broke from that seal,
and found the note to keep
the postmaster’s promise.