Anti-anti-ode To My PO Box

You’re not the rocks that line the pathways of my life.
You’re not the open summer sky,
Or the closed winter sky,
Or the in betweens of fall and spring.
You don’t bring up boring topics of conversation
And you don’t stay closed to me.
You don’t cloister yourself like monks
When correspondence arrives.
You don’t go with just anyone.
You’re not the fingers prying into my affairs,
The teeth grinning madly at me,
Or the arms waving me off.
You’re not a conniver, a spy, a spendthrift, or a dullard.
You don’t change your hat to match your pants.