The Postman on His Motorcycle

The Postman on His Motorcycle
I start my rounds with a kick
The engine purrs to life
Sounding like my lawn mower
My fluorescent orange jacket snug around my body
Like a woman’s arms
My bags are full and ready to be emptied
My head pounds and the world is flat 
I think I woke up in my uniform
Blanked out
 in a stranger’s bed
Staring
at a blank
ceiling
Trees, green leaves, blur
past me as I
Splutter past low brick
walls
barking dogs
Stop
gently by
 a mail box
Push my mail into the slot
Like I pushed into a stranger
Sweaty heavy salty panting
Moans and sighs and urgency
The too bright sun
Highlights the blue inked addresses
Glints off angry windows
With their drawn curtains
manicured gardens
Maybe empty
 houses sit in silent accusation
Of the night
When I deliver myself
 into the arms and legs
Of an empty stranger
Filled until the envelope
 is cast away
And I speed into the dawn
Into a familiar route
Forever stop/starting
at each empty box
At each uncaring slot

At each indifferent address.
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