Writing Is Hard Work

Musings of a Hard Working Writer...

  • Roger Colby

A Poem: “Wrong Mailbox”

Wrong Mail Box

Fiancées wedding shower. I am the solitary man at this gathering, Unaware that men are not Invited to these things, But anticipating The outing I have devised for later For my future bride: Italian Bistro and “Will Rogers Follies”

For now I wander the dimly lit cavernous halls of the church, For it is Saturday, and we are saving power, says the diminutive pastor. I ponder the life I am about to begin With my true love My soul mate Two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl Becoming one found soul

As I repose upon a soft couch in the foyer The sonic double cheeseburger I consumed earlier Like concrete congealing in the rain So I hasten to the nearest lavatory. Discovering it empty, I enter the nearest stall To begin the inevitable

With smart phones a distant future I sit in silence And then I ascertain voices

Distinct female voices

Before long Someone enters the stall to my left And my eyes track down To the underside of the faintly rusted partition And I spy a nylon clad foot nestled in a somewhat scuffed gray pump

I start, my business concluded, and begin to survey my mistake

The chatty voices continue: “And did you see that blender? Who gives a blender?” “And my goodness he is…what does he do again?” “He’s so handsome. At least more handsome than the other ones.” “Did he say something about being a writer?” “Hope that pays the bills.” “I wonder when they’ll have some little ones running around?”

Precipitately I am beset with fear, The trap I have arranged for myself springing shut. How to escape? The woman next to me finishes with a clamber And I hear the softest sound of elegant flatulence A flush And the voices continue, but they are thankfully, mercifully quieting, moving away.

So I decide to escape.

I ready myself, Fastening things together. Tucking in shirt tail Taking in a deep breath and holding it Holding it Holding it

My hand, quivering, reaches for the latch. I slide it aside Grip it until the metal creaks Open quickly The motion wafting a humid breeze

And two minuscule girls stand before me in their Sunday best, Between the stall and the sink Staring wide eyed Mouths open in horror

And I dash out the door.

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