An Unknown Western-Union Boy

Fifteen years in this down-at-heel arcade
Your face has crossed mine like a concave blade,
The new moon’s arm cocked on the old, a scythe
Reaping a field of people, a long horn
That holds one worn note constantly, although,
Boy, now your head sustains a fall of snow,
And your cheeks deepen with erosion, lose
Their fertile topsoil, carried down by days,
A Mississippi, to your delta mouth.
Your glasses flash a message still; your neat
And backhand figure prints on serif feet
Communication’s progress; your bent hand
Grips in its quiver yellow arrows of
Desire, dismissal, supplication, love,
As ever. Best regards. Please expedite.
Order today. Tomorrow is the night.