Writing Home

It stands to attention
like a redcoat,
lost in self-importance.

I curse it!
Just another whore in a red dress
on any street corner.

Its eyes follow me
as I walk past,
accusing me with its stupid flat head!

It says, “I am waiting.
I know you hear
that empty rumble of my belly.”

Finally, I give in.
Try to shove the letter
into its anxious mouth.

But the envelope
is bloated with anger
and hangs like a cow’s fat tongue.

In frustration I stamp the letter
into the grass until
I can no longer hear its screams.

The address slides in a black web
over the white … hollow words
scuttle away like spiders.