"You've got mail"

Red and stout, alone on the kerb,

His mood never screamed; Do not disturb.

Ever waiting, with black lips open,

Looking out for passerby's, men or women.

Hungry forever, he looked for a bite,

Alas, he ate something I write.

For years he stood and gobbled my thoughts.

Zilch as an output for inputs as lots.

No. 201, Archbald street,

"You've got mail" the postman bleat.

Drowned in the soup of curiosity,

I ran eagerly to my serendipity.

I stared at the envelope,

With optimism and hope,

*pinch* I couldn't be dreaming,

Even if I was I wouldn't try waking.

I finally drew myself to the glue,

Unaware of its origin from where or from who,

I grasped it tightly, a firm hold.

My impatient fingers ripped the fold.

Shell-shocked, I dropped it on the ground,

The sight of the sheet made me drown.

I rubbed my eyes and hastily blinked,

Reality bit me, not a word was inked.