I noticed today at the post office
while buying stamps. Which is ironic, ’cause
I was mailing my eighth rent check.
I still had to borrow a pen for the envelope
I grabbed as I ran out the door at home.
To call it a book was a misnomer
at best, but I walked out feeling taller
a little stronger, and a bit wiser,
even for the lack of words or pages.
It was alright only in the sense
of the candle I didn’t leave burning,
spilling shock and darkness into 2am
when I finally got home.
It was a slow build,
accumulating time and circumstance
into an unwilling, graceful movement;
explaining things, people I’ve moved on from,
burgeoning respect for my married friends,
and why I always to blow out my candles
and lock the door behind me as I leave.