The throes of an aching neck,
digitally hunched window dressing.
One look – 12 hours gone.

And the undulating day –
measured in mailbox pings.
Marching orders. Troops afire.

What if they were letters instead?
Real paper, for God’s sake.
Spare the back but spoil the wrist.

Letters rammed into mailbags,
bundled onto steamships. Puttering,
slow puffs across mute oceans.

Letters that got wet, crinkled –
– grubbied by the postmaster’s hand.
Bruised apples, eat ’em anyway.

Letters that reach our beneficiaries,
as Sisyphus reaches his hilltop,
One second, attention all unbroken.

Anyway, in that faraway place – 
where medium is meaning,
here’s the message.

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