Post Office

by Elizabeth Johnson

Cars pull in and cars pull out, no space staying vacant very long. Old men in golf shirts and khakis, career men in oxfords and ties and dress slacks, teenagers in tank tops and sagging jeans, college co-eds in t-shirts and yoga pants, stooped-over grandmothers in brightly colored jackets and crisp white trousers. Each expecting something, though they all walk by with tired blank faces. Some walk in with big boxes in their arms or little packages of cheer, hoping to sell something or send a message of love somewhere; some to get their bundle of mail, hoping to find something sweet in the mess of bills and advertisements; some to get information on passports or jobs or moving services. Each looking for some fulfillment in their task. The austere brick fa├žade of the building rises as a backdrop to this humdrum of motion, still and constant behind the brisk activity on the sidewalk.


Elizabeth Johnson dapples in poetic prose and prosaic poetry. She would love for you to critique or comment on some of her work here.