200 years ago I would have been biding my time
in a heavy wool dress gathered around my legs
hem growing dirty from the fire’s dust and ash
feet raw on an icy stone floor
Watching for the arrival of a stagecoach
or maybe a wiry boy on horseback
exhausted as he thrusts a tattered envelope
before my eager and nervous face
Maybe I would brew a cup of tea for the occasion
and sink into the old patterned armchair
or I would flee to a lonely field thick with snow
to slide that precious paper into my hands
But likely I would already be long-married
pressing a damp child to one shoulder
stacking wood on the fire as ice decorated the window
rushing to check on the rising bread for my husband
200 years ago I would have been more patient
less desperate to hear from you within the day
instead of indulging the itch to check
my texts, my emails, over and over