The Postman

By Manish Singh A

Warm, cold, rainy or breezy,

There’s never a day he’s off-duty,

A little bit old, very much lively,

He manages to drop-by daily.

Gentle knocks and letter-box tap

On houses that look all the same.

His vast mind is his only map,

He knows us all by our names.

Around here for about fifty years,

He senses what’s in the letter;

Blitheness, gladness, fear or tears,

Or something to make feel better.

He smiles when my letter’s cheery,

And withers when I’m doleful,

The day I feel happy and sunny

Is the day he feels gaiety and soulful.

When the day calls for the night,

He is reminded of incompletions

Brooding under darkness’s sight,

Waiting to reach the destination.

Reading them brings on a smiley,

Reminding of warmth and intimacy

And of the depths of being empty;

Of failing to uncover the intricacy.

In the drawer, beneath his pillow,

And in the unposted-box are a few;

Still very fresh and having the glow,

Still appearing young and twenty-two.

He has had his days of love,

Of something promising and pure,

The absence of which has been rough,

Leaving tad glumness to endure.

He lives a lot during the night;

Memories a dozen, dreams a few,

He is our morning ray of sunlight,

He was once a receiver, and a lover too.

By Manish Singh A