Zen Postale

Flop!
shatters the virtual suburb
into shards of broken china.
The mailbox shakes,
amid the roses,
slammed shut.
Is this a hint
I should write my mother
and lick a stamp?
Gravel crunches with
the retreating footsteps
of the mute mailman
who knows everything,
who expressed himself
with an act of violence,
the trek of an apostle,
in summer kit --
shorts and Safari hat,
U.S. Post Office issue,
marching through time
to the neighbor's house
where a conversation died
about a year ago.
He clutches grocery ads
and mass advertising,
his weathered tan face
shouting a martyrdom.
What snail mail came today?
Which credit card offer?
What thin hospital newsletter,
what pizza discount,
what auto dealership
racket lurks behind
sealing wax with a key
to a free car?
What horror has arrived
from the county tax office
in the block print
of official terrorism?
How high is my power bill?
What notice from the IRS?
The new Zen Postale.

Gone are the days of
curly handwriting on
square violet envelopes
with the promise of
scented curly words within.
I open the mailbox
with youthful anticipation
of a square violet envelope
but find an offer of
a burial plan.
The mailman walks
in the distance with
the rhythmic swinging
of his right arm,
the swagger of the lean body,
his long tanned legs
mimicking the gait of
a gazelle finding water.
Zen postale.
He will not fade into
the mists of time.
He will not go the way
of scented correspondence
long after the taste
of a postage stamp
is forgotten.
Somehow we will always
wait for the trudging legend,
watch the mailbox
and hope.







Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 800 times
Written on 2012-09-09 at 04:01

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shells
Sheer brilliance, loved this. Such descriptive verse and we all do it, that hopeful anticipation of the mail drop.
2012-09-09