Clare regards the mailbox torn from its post
and flung by the storm through the living room window
and wonders if the mailman—he is a man—will take the time to maneuver around
the downed tree limbs that litter the gravel driveway,
step carefully through the broken glass,
walk across the sodden Persian carpet,
and place the mail in the box now embedded
in the upholstery of the couch, flag bent,
lid open to the ceiling like a hungry baby bird.
Terry Ofner lives in Indianapolis with an alfalfa field just the other side of the backyard fence.