butterfinger

the us p0stal office is almost an anachronism.
however, even at post 10 post meridian
the line is steady three deep. a man in a baseball
cap tapes a package together with the machine
supplied by a ten year old girl with long brown hair,wearing
lime green shorts and a baby doll top= his daughter most likely-
via the usps. a very large black woman, wearing black
and white, trundles out of the automatic doors
into a silver suv. the carriage tilts to one side as she
leans out to close the door with a heavy sigh.
rap music follows  her out the lot. early spring
rain runnels the windshield so   when i spy
you thru 2 panes of glass, taping
 the flat rate package with a huge transformer
inside at the service desk, you're blurred
like a special effects montage.
 i think about when you
were someone else, wonder
 if we are rilly still  friends
or if the echo location is faulty
 this far out from ground zero.

my eyes are glass soaked in sky.
bucket lists notwithstanding,
we were young together once
and i want us to be that again  
i stay up till the witching hour to  induce
tranquility and innocence
 in time reversing pleasure.
edit my lines. take off the glasses.

 it's the night of silverr
suvs. polar opposite of the last occupant, this wasp
curves proper, no heaving sighs/ pertness
perspicacity and she's off to the queque, all business.
you wrap diligently through the glass
the wait should be interminable, but it's not
i filled the seconds with  images of you