The Post Office affixes yellow labels

sending my own bleeding hearts back to me

just like the old famous Elvis song

and naturally since the missives

represent my only friends at least which’ll listen

and not just say Peter shut up about all that

I’m trying to read into this enigma what

is meant in the deeper if anything

are editors sick of me too

or did their small fetus die


as everything good seems to

meanwhile the same sun slashes at the

side of the building the unrefreshed cars

straddling it, no one getting any relief