Our postman only rings once,
then he evaporates like a feral cat.
He’s a man who sports a great totemistic tatoo,
which perhaps provides him street cred, or bar cred.
Through his nasal septum dangles a ring,
of the type we used to put in pigs
to stop them rooting. Is he a pig,
or a cat? I want to ask him that.
I’d like to see his penis.
Is it mesmerizing, or tapeworm-flat?
I imagine his name’s Dennis.
Touched with a soupçon of menace,
he keeps his hopeful wife guessing.
In fact, he keeps the whole neighborhood guessing
if he’s here to stay, or bound for extinction—
the United States Postal Service flown away,
or blown away, like passenger pigeons.
I think this is what makes his spirit moving.
I swear sometimes at night, about midnight,
independent of the influence of any firmament,
I see his shadow gliding from house-to-house,
door-to-door, quietly perusing:
musing. He passes over.
But occasionally someone inside dies,
though it might take years for the salient fact
to finally fully register.