Now that I’ve given you up,
I run into you every time I pop in

to drop an envelope into the thin maw
of the beast that embraces the mailables,

and (please, postal gods) magically
ferries them where they need to go.

You were mine for three decades, your
silvery face as familiar as a longtime lover,

me the inconstant partner arriving
periodically with the little brass key,

deftly inserting it, turning it and, opening
you, peering hopefully into your depths.

Even when you held nothing, I knew
that you waited for me—only me—

day after day after day. Even on Sundays.
You look good, just like you always did.

I hope someone nice has you now.
I hope they are grateful for your silent

patience, your always there-ness,
which, I realize now, I probably never

told you, certainly never appreciated
you nearly enough.