- Gordon Challis
This cargo of confessions, messages,
demands to pay, seems none of my concern;
you could say I'm a sort of go-between
for abstract agents trusting wheels will turn,
for censored voices stilled in space and time.
Some people stop me for a special letter;
one or two will tell me, if it's fine, that I
have picked the right job for this kind of weather.
A boy who understands life somewhat better
asks where postmen life - if not our office, why?
The work is quite routine but kindness
and awkward problems crop up now and then:
one old lady sometimes startles passers-by
claiming she is blameless as she hisses
at people present in her reminiscent ken;
she startled me as well the other day,
gave me a glass of lemonade and slipped
me a letter to deliver - 'Don't you say
a word to anyone, it's no concerns
of theirs, or yours.' Nor more it was, except
here was this letter plainly marked 'To God'
and therefore insufficiently addressed.
I cannot stamp it now 'Return to sender'
for addressee and sender may be One. The best
thing is burn it, to a black rose He'll remember.