Homing Poems

A stamp, an envelope, into the mail
Another one goes winging somewhere.
My heart lifts, my mood glows
I’ve put another one in the air.

I send out mostly homing poems
Returning to my loving care.
Still, I’m not content unless
I’ve put another one in the air.

Heavy, heavy they weigh on my hands
And I must beard the editor’s lair.
I hear their little wings beating
And I must put another one in the air.

I’ve become addicted to mail time.
Will my homing poem be there?
But I know that even so, tomorrow,
I’ll put another one in the air.

I’ll suffer the agony, torture, pain
Of the damned, of this I’m well aware
Unless, when each poem comes home
I quickly put another one in the air.

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