Ode to the Mailman

Ode to My Mailman

He never forgets me.
He always arrives.
He drops some off
And picks up more.
Whenever I’m lonely,
I wait for him,
Knowing I’ll see him,
Knowing he’ll come.

He often smiles
And bids me good day.
He waves an arm
And juggles his bag.
Then reaching inside,
He takes out some ads
And hands me a postcard
Before tipping his hat.

Sometimes I wonder
Just what it’d be like
To walk in his shoes
As he stops at each house.
Does he count up the steps,
Notice the flowers,
Sort through the letters
And ponder the contents?

Is he feeling guilty
For the cards that he owes?
Or is he thinking of how
That letter he wrote
Undoubtedly rests
In the hands of a mailman
Speeding its way
To his aunt or his sis?

But what I wonder most
Is this: Does the mailman
On his days off just sit
On his porch by the mailbox,
Waiting and wondering
And checking his watch
In hopes that his mailman
Will bring him some mail?


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