SMALL BOY IN SAO PAULO

Sunshine fumes,
cheaper than cigarettes,
a few sniffs eclipse food, shivers,
and dead cells spring courage
to snatch a purse.

The officer bends over,
laughs at his prey,
smears glue into hair,
his usual punishment.

Rain resumes.
One eyelash
won't rub clean.
The quarter moon blurs.

LETTERS UNDELIVERED

Some days he just didn't
feel like delivering,
confessed the postman,
now retired, just stashed them
in this corner of the attic,
stuffed in sturdy mailbags,
postmarks going back thirty years.

Thumbing through a small stack,
the fireman feels a rumbling
as possibilities reroute,
not by extremity of import --
certified letters mailed again,
throwaway flyers just as well undelivered --
but items like this invitation
to Ted's dinner party, so many couples ago.

William E. Cooper
© 1996

Back to Zero City Poetry Page.