Masked, we stand like sentries.
In line six feet apart at
our local post office.
At the counter, postal
clerks query clients, shuffle
forms, tease computer
screens, and explain.
And explain. Their knowledge
and patience are gnostic.
They meet miffed
remarks with measured
words, weighing them
like a package bound
for anywhere on the planet.
Older ones of us
in line may see
the Post Office as sacred.
May have lived on rural
routes or in micro-towns.
The world got in touch
with us through the Post
Office. Some may have
dabbled secretly in
philately. Or corresponded
with St. Nick. Or ordered
a baseball glove or a doll
from a catalogue as thick
as an oak stump. We
do not know why a crowd
in power wants to wreck
this secular temple. Weary,
always mocked, the post office
is, like a library or a free
clinic, the kind of institution
that saves civilization,
as drops of rain eventually
save crops. Which is why,
in line and masked, holding
boxes and plump
envelopes, we accept
the wait
with everyday grace.
