Post Haste

It was the best part of our days,
Our eyes would peer beyond the glaze,
To see if red flags still were raised,
Suspense enough to make us crazed.

What will cheer us up today?
Who will write? What'll they say? 
An invitation to a dance?
A scented letter of romance?

Perhaps a card from elder sires?
Or just an ad to buy some tires?
So we wait, then glance again,
For that elusive mail man.

But I'm afraid those days are gone,
Replaced by zeros and by ones.
The Information Age is in,
The Post is out--more so the pen.

The world is closer, so they say,
We send/receive communique,
In seconds, not days, so there's no waiting,
"No more dry, anticipating."

But I recall from Truth's front gate:
"Good things come to those who wait,"
Patience is painful, tantalizing,
Character-shaping...fantasizing.

Mystery teaches us our place,
We wait, and wait to receive our grace.
This great big world doesn't 'round us turn,
As sure as moth to fire burns.

But not today--we're all plugged in,
Webbed together in their spin.
No mystery now, we're on display,
"Here's me eating. How's your day?"

Can't we see through all the mist,
We've all become great narcissists?
In haste to bury our own past,
We've made ourselves a house of glass.

Achieving instant gratification,
Is our salient occupation.
But back when we were in our prime,
We licked a stamp...and took our time.