Umbrella up, zigzag
down Grass Street,
what happened
to the letterbox?
Nasturtiums, bamboo, ti kouka,
flourish beside signs:
No nukes. No GE.
And no mailbox.
Wooden planks hang
on long ropes
for local swingers,
but where’s your letterbox?
Hungry mouth received
rejections, accolades,
acceptances, the letterbox
gone, like you
I miss its painted
pens, plumes, pencils.
Each proclaiming
a writer lives here.
©Heather Hapeta 2007
(previously published in the Press, Christchurch NZ)
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