The Pink Lady Patrols

A blue envelope—addressed, not stamped—
has made the table its home. No one knows
how long it’s waited to get mailed. No hand
has touched it, even tried to knock it straight,
align corners. It has no need to go.

Outside, the pink lady patrols sidewalks,
kicking storm-felled leaves east, out of her way.
She feels what lurks in houses where no one talks.
Her fingers sense them when her pink suitcase
jumps on a crack. Trees are merciless, straight
through pavement, cracking concrete every day.

Some uncertain angles drop long sunbeams
to make sure dust doesn’t get seen. The naked blue
envelope almost coughs it off. This means
nothing, of course. But light often falls straight
on a meaningless name, when postage’s due.

The pink lady keeps perfect silence.
Streetsweepers kick the last leaves off pavement.
She stares at shaded window. Her sentence
pronounced, she drags her suitcase behind, straight
to the mailbox, where that note won’t get sent.