I grew up at the post office

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.

(4/6 poem)


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