top of page

A Speck of Joy in the Postman’s Day



Every morning, with half a heart he walks,

The postman to the ancient post box,

With an empty bag for letters and such

Coming in from the Russians and Dutch

But instead of these faraway notes he fills

His sack with coupons, brochures and bills

Then with half a heart he walks away

To deliver a bill for somebody to pay.

He follows that up with a Spanish brochure,

And that with an advertisement for a French manicure.

No one saw as he came and went No one cared for the postman’s descent.

His grandfather was a postman too, four decades ago

Now, he sits in his wooden chair sighing, “Where did the time go?

Of charming postcards and romantic verse

Delivered out of my delivery purse.

Receiving awaited letters with spirits high,

That kind of time has passed us by.

A postman now must deliver things of little significance to human beings.”

The postman thinks to himself: “Oh, that I could just once feel the joy

Of passing value to every girl and boy.

But alas, I know my dream is only just that,

For now we use phones and whatnot to chat.

The tangible joy of paper and ink,

It seems has left us in the blink of an eye.” He sighs.

Freshly dejected, with his dream he parts,

But then he sees in his bag an envelope endowed with red hearts.

He plucks it from the bottom of his sack,

Addressed to ‘Jack’ in curved letters on the back.

His own heart leaps out in a feathery flit,

This liquid joy, he can’t seem to describe it.

“So this is how grandfather felt

When engaging in his postman stealth –

Carrying papers blotted with the fancies of someone’s heart,

Beholding them as pieces of art –

Responsibly caring for them along the way

Gently dropping them off somewhere far away.”

So the postman goes on to deliver this letter

Realizing that his occupation is perhaps a lot better

Than he had originally thought it to be.

What his grandfather saw, now he also can see.

Then again he is on his way,

Happy for the rest of his day.

-Anonymous

14 views

Recent Posts

See All

us

there is a period in time where I am only focused on two words reflected // kaleidoscopic the truth, and the beauty...

kiln (clay; manipulated)

you smell like earth, clay in my hands. all mess and chaos, reborn. I could hate you or remake you. i could do both...

The Bear From The Woods

The bear from the woods has come to town, Now kept in a zoo, safe and sound. Its roar was very fierce and brave...

bottom of page