There’s no post on sundays 


I check for mail on every SundayAnd Sunday’s are bizarre

For the mail is not delivered Sunday

Empty my hands are

Of letters that I want 

So is that why Sunday I always check? 

For Mail that will never come

On the day they don’t collect

Handwritten letters are obsolete 

In this great technology age

I just want to turn the page

Turn the page back

To when lovely letters came

Neatly penned in black

Until time rewinds itself

The mailbox I will check

On those bitter sundays

When emptiness swallows the hope of a letter

Can we please go back?


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