Flags unraised,

envelopes

unopened,

 

letters left

unwritten.

Perched upon

 

highest pole,

mailbox now

sits empty.

 

 

(A tricube is composed of three stanzas of three lines each, and each line is made up of just three syllables. I used the writing prompt from Hour One — to write a poem about the end of anything — and used the end of the post office/snail mail era as my subject matter.)