9.26.08

Boxes with flags down

continue to greet me at every turn. 

I'm waiting for a postcard, I tell them. 

"You've been waiting for a while. 

"When was it written?

"Was it written at all?"

That's a better question;

I check again

hoping to be greeted by red flags, 

warm words for winter—I thought there were no gaps in my armor. 

There didn't used to be.