Empty.

Ode to an Empty Mailbox

O faithful box of rust and hope,
you wait, you suffer, you keep your mouth shut.
No card, no letter, not a single word—
only advertising, unheard of.

Your flap, it clamps, but remains polite,
even though your insides are orphaned.
Your post is empty, your fate is silent—
a monument to human loss and will.

Still you stand, year in, year out,
a border guard without sound.
You dream of mail, maybe a card…
but oh well, that seems like something from another year'.

Monday.