Damn That Mailman

photo by Harsh Raghavani

His name's still on the mailbox.
I ordered new letters twice,
threw them both away,
the brass ones, the stick-on kind.
The mailman knows but leaves his catalogs anyway,
and copies of Field & Stream pile up,
evidence of the life he left behind.

The river knows where he went,
won't tell me no matter how many nights
I spend listening to it mumble,
won't speak about the leaving,
or the thieves in our own lives
with pockets full of stolen time.

Some nights I walk to the boat launch,
stand where we used to stand,
back when we believed in always and tomorrow.
The water moves like it has somewhere to be.

I tell it I understand.

I tell it we all got to go sometime.

---

Thanks for reading!

---