The Postman

He schleps constantly at noon Through declivities and straight roads, Bearing messages sealed by the hands That laid them bare in the first place. Sweat caresses his face, forming one mass of Earnestness in every breath of delivery. “Hello,” he says, “your mail. Your package.” My palm breathes harder, having neared his. I sign the delivery paper and reach out for the Package. He is fussy with time and gets rewarded when The Christmas bells chime slowly From wintry belfries posting blandishments of Yuletide. Merry Christmas! A bright coin rolls into his palms and greases them. He welcomes titbits of news within crimson cards. His lungs inhale airs of chaperoned champagnes Amid the voice of canticles, soft and secret.