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This post box is red.

This post box is red. It’s been there since I was a child Layers of repaint, chips and scratches. And waits for me on the corner Anticipating my footsteps crossing the road Coming closer

In my hand I hold a written letter of endearments The red box waits And watches my contemplation Hand outstretched I deliver my verse to its care

The letter filters down sending a veil of sweet perfume To mingle with the other sealed stories and secrets And the red post box sighs He is the keeper of secrets and promises.

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