A postcard tried today to run
From imminent oblivion,
Playing hooky from its status
As littera non gratis,
Sneaking out the back door while
Heading to its prison file—
A carrier pigeon freeing mail
From the trash’s waiting jail.
Who could blame it for decamping,
Emboldened by its recent stamping?
Its very nature thus to air
Any grievance it might bear,
Its destiny the cross of citing
Other people’s lesser writing,
The unhappy messenger of news
From antiquated flip-side views:
Dressed in secondhand apparel,
It hides its light inside a barrel.
But, despite its bold endeavor
(A warning not to be too clever),
It’s ended up inside a drawer—
The role it was intended for:
Our postcard’s stab at telling all
Is bound to come before its fall,
A tourist’s temporary lark
Returning to the incubating dark.
Writing is as writing does:
What is written is what was;
As boundless as the ride has been,
Postcards end as they begin.