Unposted

The ceiling gave way in a slow, brown bloom,

dripping on the boxes stacked in the room.

I peeled the yellow pages apart with a knife,

finding the ghost of a much younger life.

It’s a draft to the man who took the deposit,

still screaming about the mold in the closet.

The ink has run into a Rorschach blur,

a blue, messy wing where the sharp words were.

Looking at it now, the handwriting is small,

it doesn't seem like much of a fight at all.

Just a wet, stained sheet in a damp pile,

not worth the postage or the bile.