Spare Parts

by Tony Kitt

A man goes to the post office
to consign his flattened heart
to a voice in the receiver.

There’s a queue inside; blood is dripping
from manila envelopes. An open–jaw container
stands ready for mutuality.

The man listens to a mirror.
The man lip–reads
his imperfection:

You are a quadrangle among circles.
You no longer exist
in your 360–degree entirety.

It’s my turn now.
Which part of me should I send —
and to whom?

The postman whispers in my ear:
You’re a writer.
Help me. Writer me.