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The Mailbox

The battered mailbox
On the wooden post
All rusty and dented
From so many years
Of dedicated use
No longer overflows
With colorful letters
And having lost most
Of its original purpose
Now only safeguards
The weekend’s news
Becoming slowly obsolete
Like a sentimental antique
Replaced by a plethora
Of email messages and texts
Superseded by technology
And the marvel of the internet
A pitifully redundant relic
Of days gone by
Yet, still standing, so obvious
At the curb, waiting
For anything handwritten
Its flag pointed at the sky
With the outgoing mail
Tucked carefully inside
Most days left wide open
And empty, like my arms
Or like the Robin’s nest
Up in the eaves troughs
Of this old house
Whose birds have flown
The durable letterbox
Slowly reinventing itself
Already repurposed
As a flower display
And garden ornament
The encroaching vines
Of the Honeysuckles finding it
The perfect place to climb
So, still bringing me joy
With each new day
Just in a different way