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Personal Note:

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Poem

In my day, the mail carrier was called the Mailman.
However, I don't recall any women choosing the profession.
He came to our house twice a day.
Once in the morning,
And once in the afternoon.
 
Time went slower then
and he had time.
He could deliver the mail
and talk to us kids a while too.
 
Once when he came by
we were playing mumbly-peg.
He asked what we were doing
and we showed him.
 
He got out his own knife
Balanced it on his finger
and ka chunk, it stuck expertly the first time.
His blade stuck in the ground every time.
 
Mine came a little too close to my toes
but stuck. He complimented the risky landing
then folded up his knife and put it back
in the mail bag draped over his shoulder.
 
The leather, old and very worn 
gave way on the edge where he reached in
for the letter that needed to be delivered next door.
Leaning into the weight of the bag,
he was on his way.

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