Outpost (Notevember 2020, #15)

It’s strange that out here, without fail
Every Sunday I get mail
Missives come from far and wide
From planets I was sure had died

Love letters, both long and tender
From some incognito sender
Hate mail too, quite unexpected
Somehow it’s been misdirected

Way back when, when I was young
The letters were in human tongues
But now – this part is quite absurd
They’re filled with squiggly, alien words

And stranger still: I understand
These strangers from some distant land
Whose letters must be writ by hands
So different from human hands

I thought perhaps one day I might
Get messages by satellite
But never, not once, did I think
To get these: paper scrawled with ink

They’re left so often in my box
Yet no one ever comes and knocks
Who leaves them here? Who writes them? Why?
Do they expect me to reply?

How did they learn of my address?
It could be a mistake, I guess
No matter how, I’m rather grateful
For all letters; love- or hateful

Living here has turned me weary
Outpost management – how dreary
But epistles make it better
Thank you, friends, for every letter