He got bitten and chased by dogs, mocked
by kids, hit by cars – and yet we liked
the misguided postman, the way he thwarted
our gardens. It was sunny the day he died.
We can no longer follow his messages the
way we follow tongues in the changing rough
craggy cheek, our tongue in cheek thank
yous when he posited the goods. What
was his name? Was everyday at work for
him a layer of blood, knee deep in kaki
knee-length mailman shorts and ballsweat?
What seeped into the raw open cuts in
his will? Wrists cut hands dogbitten fallen over
the picket fence – how’s that for putting
the wrong thing into somebody’s letter box?