Here goes, day one, crack fingers and . . .
Post Office Queue
Old ladies, always scribbling stuff down on torn envelopes,
have been a half-noticed fact of my life. The rationing thrift of it all.
I remember brave resistance women, at war, piercingly anxious,
listening to the time bomb of their hearts. An underground emotion
of morse code tapped in the irrational pulse of their blood, and translated
by place, time and memory into scribbles on a second hand envelope.
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