The Empty Slot

Six months in this house and the wood still creaks

like a stranger walking down the hall.

I haven't had a letter in three whole weeks,

but I still go out when the shadows fall.

Before the coffee, before the light,

I touch the cold metal of the box on the post.

The aluminum door is a silver bite

on a hand that is reaching for a paper ghost.

It snaps shut with a hollow, ringing thud,

leaving me standing in the morning mud.