The post box that no longer has an address waits for its hearse.
Last rites. A spray from a dog that marked it as it’s own.
Maybe a postman passing by will spot and save it.
Or that old woman who posts fading yellow 15 paisa cards, no longer printed.
No one told her that daily stories to her daughter travel don’t travel far.
A dustbin at the nearest post office.
Don’t worry. I have faithfully read all your letters, dear lady. but not anymore.
The post box without an address was cleared that night.
15 hours after 09:30AM.
Unlike most letters, it had a forwarding address.
The nearest scrapyard and a new life in many homes.