My wheels burn against the dead
road. 6am tranquillity. Here
comes the Royal Mail,
of good news,
Christopher St. Maria Ave. Backward
holy places. 1, 3, 5, 7, 9: cross
over. Letterboxes gag on
tax bills. The filth up
Mrs. A. Gainam waits for her paper.
Her barking bitch waits for me.
I wait for a promotion. Nice.
Tenerife. Postcodes on
postcards next time
We don’t steal shampoo samples
out of spite. First Class failure.
A weary face smears off
brass as I shift odds
Not many letters of my own these days.
I’m a postman. The postman.
PostMan. It’s a job. To live.
To post the world