Walking up Court Street this morning
I had just passed a scattering of paper clips,
hundreds of them, silver and glinting,
and I thought of all the papers I could hold together,
old love letters and poems, little scraps
that say not much more than ‘bird’ or ‘peach,’
and then, suddenly, a boy, no older than seven,
flew by me on his scooter; hey, I wanted to yell,
but then I saw where he had been rushing:
the mailbox. The blue mailbox. Our mailbox.
He had a half dozen or so colored envelopes,
and he worked the jaw of the mailbox open
and dropped the letters in, then he opened it again
to make sure, I imagine, that they had fallen.
I love that he opened it again.
I love that he wanted to be sure.