The Postman

For my starbrother, Matthew D. Eayre

The Postman

I don’t even know where to start,
ideally it would be sometime after
the end of the thing that never
had the chance to begin anyway,
at least not in this life.
It’s a funny thing, to write a letter
to someone I have never written
a letter to, not before this anyway,
but perhaps countless poems
and endless what-ifs have
made their way into imaginary envelopes
I have sealed with flavours of me
and found their way into planes
and trains bound for southern ports
and familiar poets who would never
dare call themselves such.
I like the thought of that,
my words and my love flying high,
crossing oceans I have yet to cross,
sailing seas I have yet to see,
and ending up in the tattered bag
belonging to a short-changed postman
who contemplates his life and rehashes
his regrets, with every weary,
wonderful step he takes.
I wonder about him, as much
as I wonder about the letter he carries
that I have yet to write.
Is he happy, that postman,
at the end of the day when he drops
his bag on the floor, does he nod his head,
and say goodnight with a smile or is he alone?
Do his feet bleed at the end of the day,
and if they do, why has he chosen to walk
miles upon miles, weeks upon weeks,
days upon days in solitude, and at the end
of the night does he have someone
good to say I love you, and rub
the miles from his feet?
Does he walk to feed his family,
or does he walk for poetic reasons?
Does he resent the load he has been given,
or does he walk with a purpose?
Does he know, deep in his heart
of tortured hearts, that he is delivering
far more than just the mail?
Does he know that between the stops
he makes he has brought love
to the doors of so many people
who once thought love could
never be reclaimed or relived.
I wonder if that postman knows
that every excruciating step
has brought joy to strangers,
love to the unloved,
and permission to move on again.
I hope one day someone writes to him,
all the words he has been longing
to read, and I hope it finds him
happy and laughing, with firm feet
and a family so loving, they would sit
at his heels while he reads it.

© Nicole Lyons 2018

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