Overkill

It is the failure of words that makes us repeat them

When someone went to the post office

In Rehoboth with a pile of stuff

To mail back to the United States,

He was kindly provided with tape

To close his cardboard boxes safely

For the trip across the Atlantic,

But many of the items were awkward,

And the cardboard boxes were flimsy,

And he found himself adding more tape

And more tape, guiltily, sheepishly,

Gratefully, knowing the hideous

Wrapping job was unlikely to keep

The contents safe. Some of the boxes

Mailed ended up less cardboard than tape.

Six months later, and back in the States,

He cut open the lumpen objects

And found most of the contents still whole,

Except for one broken-headed cane,

Carved of ironwood, ironically.

Did he blame the tape for that? Did he

Blame the tape for his fragile notions

Of how to box up his awkward things,

The ugly tape that held together,

That had been given to him for free?