the postal police can’t receive your empathy

not that they don’t have the desire or the means

(as if it could be packaged and greased down a chute)

but they have their satchels of scattered attentions

they have crickets to find behind the annex

small contraband to nurse in the boiler room

where so much space was wasted when the original

pavilion was built. now there are many citizens

who want to give, give out and give up

and you are the meep on the loading dock

your epaulets need a feather and firm dusting

you are trying to impress your mother the Queen

while they still manage something for the you

back at the vinegar picnic, where the flames

begin to convect like the neighbor’s dog