• The unmarked postage stamp.

    Sent awhile ago from Eureka
    down to Melbourne on a letter
    addressed to no one,
    or someone no one should know.

    They were white with no words
    and a mind so blank, de-pressed
    it hangs on thin to ink.

    This no one is a hard one
    working with the machines
    that are his scarred hands.

    He waits with work
    on his boots at a counter
    made for someone more deserving.

    Too many days were sent
    without acceptance, without
    enveloped rays of sun, that
    when he sees the marked stamp,

    he can't help but cry
    while the world shifts priority.