Ode to an Empty Mailbox O faithful box of rust and hope, you wait, you suffer, you hold your tongue. No card, no letter, not a single word—only advertising, unheard. Your flap, it clenches, but remains polite, though your insides are orphaned. Your mail is empty, your fate is silent—a monument to man's loss and will. Yet you remain standing, year in, year out, a border guard without a sound. You dream of mail, perhaps a card... but oh, that seems like something from another year.'