At the Post Office

let’s ship this
together: we can save a little bit
of money.

honey, your’s ees heavier
than mine—zat’s not really fair
to me.

can’t we do this
together? you never want to do
anything together anymore.

will this be together or separate?

they’re both going
to the same place anyway.

* * * * *

since when was love measured
in shipping costs?—when does
a packaged picture frame tell

how much he loves you?
will we ever get to that point?
will you and i measure our love

in dollars, dimes,
and credit card bills?;
student loan payments and

mortgages? will my love letters
ever become
bank statements?;

college funds?;
insurance co-pays for that night we spent
in the hospital because

you had to get your stomach pumped?
when will my roses to you be held
in a checkbook rather than a vase?

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