This poem is taken from Stand 219, 16(3) August - September 2018.

Mark Belair Three Poems
At the Post Office

The old post office marble
stands stained beneath each
service window, smudged
from countless customers
leaning in to push packaged
gifts or business parcels or
love letters across, the body
outline below each counter
of a curiously like contour—
the median, it must be, of our
variety—each silhouette also
the same mournful brown as if
mirroring the scarcely felt yet
soul-ingraining costs of all our  
small, everyday, permanent
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