The postmark is a halfyear old

The postmark is a half-year old,

a ghost story delivered at noon.

The marriage is already cold,

the honeymoon a popped balloon.

I run my thumb over the raised ink.

It’s a heavy, creamy sort of lie.

The wedding was beautiful, I think.

I watched the divorce go by.

It spent six months in a sorting bin

while the legal fees started to pile.

I’ll throw the whole thing in the tin

and try to remember their smile.