PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Beads of sweat tickle - trickle down my forehead

Blazing their soggy path through my brow and into my eyes-

It burns.

Squinting, rubbing the salty grit on my lids

I can hear the rhythmic creaking of the leather strap below my ear

Keeping the off-beat to the cadence of my own foot-steps

Along the concrete, along the packed earth below me.

It burdens my shoulder, my back.

The satchel it suspends keeps a rhythm of it's own.

Slapping and brushing my leg

As if my pocket things were a tambourine -

Though muted and dull against my thigh.

The sun shows brightly against the white envelopes

That my right hand peels from the stack in my left.

It glares against the glossy cover girls stacked on my pale left arm.

Up the steps, across the porches to make my deposit.

My feet finding their own way as my eyes read.

They read the envelopes, the parcels. Names, numbers, postage.

A quick glance for the drop, another behind for a faint jingle.

A dog's collar?

No; the muted tambourine.

"Good morning", "How are you?."

"Have a nice day!" And "...enjoy your week-end?"

"Hot enough for ya?" And, "You can keep the bills!"

The smallest of small talk carries me through most days.

Smile, move on, "Good morning!"

The same, the same, the same.

The dogs have more to say than the neighbors.

The dogs are honest.

The air is fresh; sweet even, with blooms.

Around the corner it is steeped in bacon and coffee-

Saturdays? Thick with the smoke of a back yard bar-b-que.

The arouma intermingled with the squeels and giggles of children.

Five blocks ago?  Putrid - pungent;

Heavy with the odors of " trash day", an unkept kennel.

The smell of your fresh cut grass rises, greets my nostrils.

The small mine field your dog left assaults them.

The walk of a post-man is my walk.

Thousands of steps each day.

Blades of grass whipping the toes of my plain black shoes

Exposing the bare leather.

Dozens of miles each week

On hot, tired feet, twisted ankles, clicking knees.

For thousands of miles my calloused heels collide with the earth

Before I deliver the title to your new car-

Saw you working on it, no warranty by now.

A thousand more on leathery soles

Before I pick up two-hundred invitations to your daughter's wedding...

Passing by, passing by, passing by

I vanish down your street, around the corner.

I watched her grow up while I walked miles across your sodded lawn.

I saw her chalk drawings wash away in the rain-

Fade away over time in the breeze.

C'est la vie