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A poem I wrote at a funeral

Death strolls down the street like the post man 

Pausing at each gate 

Pregnant with grief 

The rusted wheels on the satchel mail cart wobble and squeak 

I stand by the window in the foyer

gently resting my fingers alongside the curtain 

Tilting my head to peer beyond the barely bent blinds 

I see the mailman 

The same one from yesterday 

And the day before 

The one with the bottomless messenger bag 

As soon as the squeaking stops 

Everything is still 

The wind waits 

Nothing breathes 

The mail carrier looks up and studies the numbers on doors 

Then back down again

scanning an envelope

and cross referencing the address

The letters are stamped 

With names indelibly printed

When the wobbling wheels resume squeaking 

The world turns again 

But not for everyone 

Someone received a letter 

We gather 

We grieve 

We go on 

And the post man never retires his route 




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