The postman passes by on his bicycle
head stooped, wheezing
as though bearing the weight of the world:
bills, eviction notices, summonses
the desperate incoherent poetry of unrequited love
an emigrant’s litany from distant shores.
Rainclouds are stealing in from the west as heavy as his load
of sympathy letters, junk mail
final warnings from the bank, the taxman, electricity company
tearful flyers from charities, young boys with flies around their mouths and eyes
a personal note from the local representative: Dear Sir or Madam
scratch cards, all this he must bear
and the knowledge that the age of letters is drawing to a close.
And will he venture out some morning early, his satchel empty?
The last postman.
