Portraits. The Man Who Gave Up His Mailbox

Well, sooner or later I had to do it.
There was nothing else left for me.
For twelve years all I’ve received in it
are my bills for cold water and
the others from that branch of knowledge...
So last night I checked it,
took out two more little white envelopes.
I wrenched it out, base and all,
and left it lying on its side
in the pantry.

There it’ll be close at hand.
I’ll write myself postcards from faraway places
and drop them straight into it.
I’ll write myself long and short letters,
wedding invitations, invitations to cards,
messages, notices, adverts, announcements
and catalogues,
small parcels and slips for large
parcels that I’ll have to go
and collect
from the post office.

Shall I subscribe to something?
(What a thought! That one I won’t
be coming back to...)

And when I’m in the mood,
I’ll answer wittily
my letters and postcards,
my subscriptions and the like.

I’ll even read my water meter,
my electricity meter, my heat meter and my time meter
and write myself a bill, which I’ll pay
by cheque through the post — and guess where I’ll post it?