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.
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