I hear the door close, one of many,

after one, after one,

I could do the same, shut the door,

slam it, barricade it completely

and let go, hide behind the door,

behind the memory of everything that ever went wrong,

my door, my fault, I am so very sorry

to have let it get to the point

where even the postman cannot push the letterbox,

cannot dump the adverts, the mix and match rubbish

bag fillers, the black plastic coffin

for the unwanted junk mail for this junk male,

the debris keeps falling, it keeps deteriorating

and coming apart at the seams, a tiny invisible split here,

a small fracture there, this rag doll man ripped out heart,

cotton for brains;

I sit behind my door, screaming

but the postman never hears,

he whistles as casually drops

another piece of junk mail

on this junk male.

Ian D. Hall 2016