by Quinn White
One Saturday, I rode with the mailman,
no seatbelt, braced against packages, unsure I was legal.
August, he soaked a handkerchief in ice water,
said last week a one-eyed dog ran in front of the truck.
Off, its depth perception. He spoke of hit birds and turtles.
We debated what makes a parcel, considered
fish, bees, the box of chickens
delivered dead because they stayed
too long in the heat. He mentioned a poster
behind the mail clerk’s desk explaining
animals fit for shipping. In the afternoon weeds,
I found a shrine to Snow White and six dwarves.
We couldn’t decide which dwarf was missing.
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