My grandmother is dead,
and yet letters addressed to her continue to be delivered, unhindered.
They are from banks still greedily friendly, from contemporaries who
never knew the worst has come, and then some from insurance salesmen
offering lifetime guarantees to the dead, misled by inefficient files.
We the living open them of course, with force reserved for unwanted mail
and deceitfully neat telegrams.
I have this fear though, as the letters keep on sliding under our door,
that grandmother still answers every single one,