The Mystery of the Waldo

A few houses had stumped me for a few days, until I'd finally knocked on the door and asked them where in the Waldo was their mailbox. The woman who'd answered the door had laughed and apologized as she'd pointed it out. She'd gotten one of the pretty cream envelopes; I imagined her wrestling it from her chihuahua. Lucky timing, her invitation wouldn't have teeth marks in it. This house had a mailbox by the street, but I kept an eye on it to see that it was regularly emptied. On a spring clean-up day, his front porch swept and tidied. Today his mailbox wasn't overly full - maybe just one other day