I was delivering letters
mostly ones I wrote myself
on a piece of paper stamped
and folded into a triangle
with no envelope
address written on the back
no one expected more
while the recipient cries
I slip quietly through the door
usually I got in
one’s son is in a trench at the front
one’s daughter is a whore
the third one’s cat has run away
the fourth is so lonely
that of any disaster an earthquake
a traffic accident he always hopes
his relatives were involved too
I learned not to say much
we regret to inform you
your humble and obedient servant
beyond that illegible
an ink blot a scorched corner
I became a close friend
they would invite me to the table for tea
give me some cap or
woolen socks
at last I became a human
to whom an alien pain is not alien