Again

...
Take the mailbox off. Off from the side of the road where it stands for 20 years or so. Once plowed down. Twice replaced.

No bats this time, mowing off one by one down the avenue, leaving letters scattered. No crumpled box in pieces littering the miles. Just lifted up, straight up off the cemented 4x4, straight up in the air and gone.

This time we're alone, unlike the baseball batter's tour.
Prank?
Need?
Appreciation?

With paint and brush and spraying can, silver and green and blue dripping. Liquid steel squeezing out, frosting like slurpy dollops of rubber-bronze. Like kisses, with a spring on top. That box came into it's own. Art and immaturity.

Now don't think more thought, not about targets, vandalism or convolution; nor kids nor men nor in between. Thinking must be locked tight.

The new gray utilitarian is up. There.
Numbers sticking and sparkling like cracked opals.
Reflectors walk on the sides.
Too clever to be boring.
Too different to escape notice.

That's who I was and am.

Danger comes with notice. But, please still care. Don't steal me straight up into the air and away. Like I dream and wake in false tears; reality just a stuffed head, but my dream in day has me falling, stolen.

See the mailbox, odd but bright?
A slight turn of the head ok,
but leave it.

...