July 25, 2012 § 2 Comments

the flag snaps in the breeze
that seems to sidestep the
neighborhood holdouts whose lungs
match that of
the sidewalks wheeze
the back alleys belch
fetid warning
and the trash
barrels roll along the gutter
bankorphaned proprietors don’t
anything sustaining to life
beer, cigarettes, lottery stubs
the empty remains of
which hold masses of gratitude
for the addictees,
they multiply along the rotting
clapboard storefront
along with plastic tubes
of frozen sugar water
their colors gone
sucked dry by
shoeless children who
run in happy packs as long
as the light remains
the congregants of the old church
repeat tracts of their youth
to the congregants of the new
but the choir isn’t singing
and the pipes have gone silent
and the bells
only ring at noon
signifying some divide in the day
sending little more into
the air than flocks
of pigeons
their flight tracked daily
by the postman
who may have had words
of significance for all of this
stored in the flask of forgetfulness
in his hip pocket
it’s weight offsetting
that of which he carries
but the words, if he had them
would only be lost
among the unopened envelopes
and their meaning beat into
shell shocked dogs
by the desperate and forgotten


§ 2 Responses to postman

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading postman at Fred Whitehead's Blog.


%d bloggers like this: