Sundays no one’s ever here
between these walls redblue with labels,
cards, and rolls of packing tape.
And there’s my face enclosed in a plastic
display. No one ever asked me.

I’d rather see me cast in bronze
or chiseled into stone outside
a library, a college, a city hall
somewhere. But here I find myself,

staring indifferently from a sheet
of stamps, pleading—forever, unwilling—
to be bound to bills and birthday cards.
What do I know, what do I know
of the post’s austere and lonely offices?