USPS, 55407

L asked if I wanted to come in (to mail smut books), but I had already been to the post office earlier (to mail belated valentines).
Outside there are no people. Everything is getting muted, dampened (a fine dry snow). Cars are silver/black/blue, making
curved grey paths, they drift here and there, make that sound (the soft scrape of rubber meeting ice). Exhaust smells before I
see it. That little brick building, the tattoo shop (where M gave me a fleuron), lights out at 4 PM on a Tuesday. I’m waiting for L
(I turn and lean):

white maille screen, concrete
punctured punctum petal
(a big hush comes)

PURCHASE

I told you I did a bad job parking but it didn’t matter (the lot was almost empty). I only had a few things in my basket (lemon,
shallot, expensive toothpaste). We are the only people here, standing next to the greens. I can’t buy them, I say; no, you
can’t, you say (you know I can’t be trusted). There are more people here than I thought there would be (I wasn’t expecting to
see you so soon). That soap we like comes in containers like milk cartons now (you don’t notice it). You said you weren’t sure
if you were going to get a lemon.

What do I think? (You are implicating me in this decision)
I don’t know, it’s a lemon. (I don’t want it)

Miri Karraker lives and works in Minneapolis.