The Forgotten Mailman

The Forgotten Mailman

The mailman lost his map.
Perhaps he dropped it in Ms. Mercanteel's mailbox
along with the fifteenth fat letter from Latvia.
So many god-damned stamps! He got scrumpled
in a vision of the many licks the Latvian sealed
on the envelope's top right corner. At this point,

no doubt, he lost his map,
his route, not to mention, his job.
So, like a shot, he walked to the forest,
and there, with nothing but a sun-visor,
he lived eating fireants, praying mantis,
scraping psalms in trunks with sticks,
and spying on deer in heat.

Bathing in rain, he thinks of Ms. Mercanteel
and her Latvian lover with his thick notes,
calligraphic print, and this makes the mailman cry.
The trees shuffle their leaves and lose some
to the rain. A yellow one lands on his head,
his face in his hands, and he doesn't know it's there,
but he knows he's there, alone.
And to the mailman, that's something.