Return to Sender

In a tan station wagon, cruising up Fifteenth Street,
we were mere seedlings, aching to shoot up from our
earthen pots.

Bare bones in the breeze, floating on the back of a
Victory-8, murmur of deprivation from the
shadows of their lives.

Meet me by the streetlight next to the mailbox that is
no longer there (you know the one); I shall wrap you in
the balmy blankets of 1996.