I used to reach for it. . .
tiny brass birthday cake-like,
seed-sized oval atop
held the box together
but disaster
if unscrewed, which I did,
many times.
Sun darkened metal, from sitting
on his window ledge,
little side slit
exposed that
red,
white,
and blue
ribbon of stamps.
Black flecks from tarnished
nicks and scratches,
(some from when I dropped it)
my small hands gripped,
rubbed fluffy green felt
underneath.
He used so many stamps
running for office,
sending spicy letters
to litigants.
I watched the stamp ribbon,
as it dwindled,
he would ask me to
unscrew the little oval
and refill,
as though
a sacred ritual
only we could fulfill.
March 1, 2019