Air Mail

Box of nothing Expect nothing, you said

and nothing is what

arrived this morning

in the first post.

 

Nothing. Enclosed in a box

ten inches by ten by ten

all wrapped up in used

brown paper and salvaged string.

 

Expect nothing, you said

Not a penny if you marry

that spender of misfortunes

that good for nothing, nothing.

 

I opened the box expecting nothing

and nothing is what I found –

besides perhaps a faint echo

of your last laugh let out.

 

And the smell of camphor,

old hats and dusty attics, and yes –

being right about him –

that distinct whiff of righteousness.

 

 

 


Acknowledgement of a borrowed opening. This poem owes its opening two words to Alice Walker’s ‘Expect Nothing’. I promise to pay them back one day.

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