Sonnet Zork

You are standing in an open field west
of a white house, with a boarded front
door. There is a small mailbox here.

Within the mailbox lies an envelope
containing a white powdery substance.
The envelope’s stamp has not been

cancelled, and a message from the PO
says there’s still twenty-two cents due.
But who, when you’re dead, will pay?

Who will pay when you’re dead?