MINE THE MIKE SHAFT
STICK THE STOCK
The Iselin Post Office is the dumbest place : a
two bit fahrenstock foyer of darkness. Stuff we
don't know, falling out of packages. That guy,
sending an uninsured beard to Delhi, the woman
with the long fingernails, sending her ice to
Sweden. Go ahead, I want to insure you all.
And then you can't park if you can't park and
even if you know how to drive you don't.
Two weasels eat by the radiator, and, in the far
corner, all those people are running down from
the Social Security office nearby. They talk while
they fast-walk, like chimes on the job. Across
the street, township workers glumly stare
at the Quick-Chek wall.