It's one o'clock pm,
Time for the staring contest,
A blank stare I give it again,
This has become a daily ritual
For two weeks now
I anxiously go to my mailbox
To stare at its blank emptiness.
Blankly it stares back at me
Implying it's not its fault
If the mailman passes swiftly
And ignores its blank appeal daily.
Tomorrow it will try again
To gain his attention
To win the reward
Of a parcel so long expected.
On a last shared blank stare
I turn my back and slam the door,
Hoping that tomorrow
Will be the day!
Lucette C. Bailliet ©
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