Every morning, with half a heart he walks,
The postman to the ancient post box,
With an empty bag for letters and such
Coming in from the Russians and Dutch
(And everybody else too).
But instead of these faraway notes he fills
His sack with coupons, brochures and bills
Then with half a heart he walks away
To deliver a bill for somebody to pay.
He follows that up with a Spanish brochure,
And that with an advertisement for a French manicure.

No one saw as he came and went
No one cared for the postman’s descent.

His grandfather was a postman four decades ago
Now he sits in his wooden chair, sighing, “Where did the time go?
Of charming postcards and romantic verse
Delivered out of my delivery purse.
Receiving awaited letters with spirits high,
That kind of time has passed us by.
A postman now must deliver things
of little significance to human beings.”

The postman thinks to himself, “Oh, that I could just once feel the joy
Of passing value to every girl and boy.
But alas, I know my dream is only just that,
For now we use phones and whatnot to chat.
The tangible joy of paper and ink,
It seems has left us in the blink
of an eye.”
He sighs.
Freshly dejected, with his dream he parts,
But then he sees in his bag an envelope endowed with red hearts.
He plucks it from the bottom of his sack,
Addressed to ‘Jack’ in curved letters on the back.
His own heart leaps out in a feathery flit,
This liquid joy, he can’t seem to describe it.
“So this is how grandfather felt
When engaging in his postman stealth –
Carrying papers blotted with the fancies of someone’s heart,
Beholding them as pieces of art –
Responsibly caring for them all along the way
Gently dropping them off somewhere far away.”

So the postman goes on to deliver this letter
Realising that his occupation is perhaps a lot better
Than he had originally thought it to be.
What his grandfather saw, now he also can see.

Then again he is on his way,
Happy for the rest of his day.