At the Post Office, 11 AM

by Debra Franco

We, the old, stand
like trees in a line,
trunks shaped
by where we rooted
and grew: upright or
bent, sheltered or
exposed to winds
that bit and slapped
our backs.

Time stretches here,
has holes in it.
Our watches run
backward toward
a still moment
in sunlight, ticking
down, tell
a different time
than the humming
watches of the young

with their luminous
faces. We’re here
to post our packets
into the space
between us
and the past, wait
for the letter
that tells us how
the story ends, who
the murderer was,
what it’s all
been about.