P.O. Box 117

When this letter reaches you, know
I have sent you Naaman, my servant,
that you may cure him of his leprosy.
                                  —II Kings 5:6

I praise all things postal:
                                       the ritual
of weighing, the taste of glue, the justice
of one-cent stamps.
                                     I praise each substitute
mailman, uniform askew,
wandering along Woodlawn Avenue,
clutching our mail like a lost tourist.

I praise the collector’s open albums aflutter
with stamp hinges where a young miser
sits hunched over a magnifying glass
counting perforations.