Mail box

The mailbox on 3rd Street
is having a bellyache.
 
I can see him writhing in discomfort -
Gas pressure building
from last night's dim sum,
and spices sautéed with onions and vowels,
maybe paper grains and postage, even -
But I don't have any medication
to take care of his indigestion.
 
Heartburn revisits
with electric lips.
 
Hives break out
like lettuce leaves.
 
He feels nauseous,
he says,
and wants a tablet of Tums,
but I can't find his mouth anywhere -
Can notice, only,
his burnt metal esophagus,
soldered hip bones,
and light blue liver.
 
I call the doctor
four times
but she is away,
at a cousins wedding,
and will return only
on Friday.