I walk in the door, stepping around paper trash

Wastebaskets vomiting junk mail,

Crunching on a carpet transfused with 20 years of snow, sand, gravel

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The surface now worn from patriotic blue to the

Color of that foundational dirt beneath.

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My daily trip to get my mail, out of a tiny box.

I’m held hostage by the USPS which won’t deliver mail in the mountains

Cuz we’re not “dense” enough.

Smarter people worry about COVID, infrastructure, voting rights

But I wonder how we survive a national will

Swept into a third world corner

Of my post office on Brian Avenue.