Some honorary day

if I play my remaining cards right

I might be a postage stamp

but I won’t be there to lick me

and licking was what I liked,

in tasty anticipation of

the long dark slither from the mailbox,

from box to pouch to hand

to bag to box to slot to hand:

that box is best

whose lid slams open as well as shut,

admitting a parcel of daylight,

the green top of a tree,

and a flickering of fingers, letting go.