The Blue Post Office, Prague
Kirby Wright
I exit tram 16
At a windowless warehouse
Squatting on Plzenska
Welcome to the blue post office.
Inside, a hallway of doors.
Lined behind the doors,
Locals wrinkle with worry.
Scent of stamps and cigarettes.
White shirts with black ties
Motion the lost to longer lines.
I'm thinking Kafka.
I ascend steps
To a second hallway
And another row of doors.
Here a woman inspector
Directs me skyward.
Boxes imprisoned on the 3rd floor
Wait for tariffs and storage fees
Never to bepaid.
A bald man with cutter
Razors opens my case:
Books tumble out,
Foreign words
Cursing the linoleum
I exit tram 16
At a windowless warehouse
Squatting on Plzenska
Welcome to the blue post office.
Inside, a hallway of doors.
Lined behind the doors,
Locals wrinkle with worry.
Scent of stamps and cigarettes.
White shirts with black ties
Motion the lost to longer lines.
I'm thinking Kafka.
I ascend steps
To a second hallway
And another row of doors.
Here a woman inspector
Directs me skyward.
Boxes imprisoned on the 3rd floor
Wait for tariffs and storage fees
Never to bepaid.
A bald man with cutter
Razors opens my case:
Books tumble out,
Foreign words
Cursing the linoleum