Dead Letter Office

The Sunday paper lists his name,

at least the part of it he shared.

The ink is dry, the news is tame,

and no one knows I ever cared.

I found the letter in a book,

the glue gone brittle, stained and brown.

It only took a single look

to feel the heavy weight of town.

The envelope won’t even seal;

the lick-and-stick is long since dead.

It’s strange the way the silence feels

when all the words stay in your head.