by Dana Kroos
I am in love
with the mailman.
I know that it is a
cliché, but
I can’t help it.
I love his sense
of routine and commitment,
his tracks in the snow,
the rubber-band with which
he binds
my bills and catalogues
together.
He is not
obstructed by phone calls,
appointments, traffic, road
construction or Big Wheels
scattered across his path;
does not feel obliged to make
small-talk; and when the dog
barks furiously he maintains
a Zen silence.
It is true,
I have never seen him; but
I imagine that he has large
hands and delicate fingers for
slipping all of those letters into
boxes. I fantasize that one day
he will save me from all of this
chaos. I would like to put
myself in a stack with the
outgoing mail so that he can
pick me up,
categorize me in his
canvas bag and
carry me around on his hip
all day long.