Mailbox
A poem about repair
Christoph Waltz says you should be self-confident
enough to abandon your certainty.
I’m pretty certain he’s autistic.
I know, I’m not supposed to say that.
Society says that’s presumptuous.
Of course what that means is too weird,
too uncomfortable to sit with the idea
of uncertainty, abnormality, too rude
to insinuate the integrity of a mind
that builds from the inside out—
A fucking car hit my mailbox yesterday.
Again.
I replaced it today with one twice its size,
set the post in concrete, soaked
that splintered pine with hardener—twice.
That shit’s not budging.
And if it does,
I’ll fix it.
∞
