Lama Sabachthani?

It’s seven-thirty in the morning,
and…
I’m waiting for a postman who never comes,
a postman who slams the gates of others.

There’s a letter never sent,
never known or…

On this October morning a mist licks
damp leaves and an old woman –
I’ve seen her buying a newspaper –
fades in and out as she walks her dog,
pulls her coat about her and yanks
the mutt by its chromed chain.

There’s a letter never sent,
never known or…

The postman goes by, hitches up his trews,
re-hangs his satchel, flicks through his mailsack,
passes by.

Now who’s got this?
Who’s he been to?
Up early every morning with
my covers on the floor, a neighbour’s half-heard
‘Thank you,’ and now I want to read a word,
just a word. That’s all.
Just a word from you.

My early morning brew sits in my hands,
I open up the curtains, hide behind the nets,
(looking for the conspicuous red),
I’m dripping away like butter,
fading like an Autumn sunset,
and the one constant thought that comes to me,
the one nagging doubt in my head
is whether the postman will deliver to me
a letter.
Never known or never sent.

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Posted on October 5, 2014, in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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