The mail person is giving birth:
She who knows our family names
And notes the numbers on our box
Is not who mixes up our mail.
The neighbor's stuff in mine and
Mine in theirs or none at all
Makes all things possible when
Thus no sacred rules apply.
Will some letter arrive today
Or tomorrow telling me of your
Afterlife, the satisfactions you
Feel in having dinner with friends.
String beans, mashed potatoes,
Pickled peaches, chow-chow, jello
Salad, parker-house rolls, and
Roast chicken, caramel cake and
Homemade boiled custard ice cream.
Could I have, dear Lord,
Just one more letter
Telling how it is at Heaven's table,
The pleasures of good appetite.
[Undated poem by Virginia McKinnon Mann. This one is particularly relevant as Thanksgiving draws near.]
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