Unsent and Overdue

The floorboards are buckling near the shelf,

a slow heave of pine against the damp.

I reached for a book on wiring to fix myself

a faulty switch, a flickering lamp.

That's where I found it, wedged in tight,

an envelope addressed in my own hand.

It stayed in the dark and out of sight

like a seed buried deep in the sand.

The paper is stiff, the ink is tired,

but before my thumb could even graze the flap,

the dry glue failed, the seal expired

with a sudden, brittle little snap.

Whatever I meant to say back then

is a ghost that the air has finally caught.

I’m staring at the work of a rusted pen

and the damage that a quiet house has wrought.