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Post Box

 

But Sir, I have not changed the way I am for years.
You’ll know me, you already do as that pillar
box on the street corner: Elizabeth Regina.
My cousins bear the stamp of Victoria or George.
I’ll swallow all you have to say and more.
Back then, when the world was slower, 
two thirds of it blood and white with Empire,
I held on to notes from secret lovers.
Nostalgia can find you anywhere with a postcode.
Remove me, if you so wish, the postman’s head
will still be there, bobbing above the hedgerows.