The mailman’s late again. The honey slides
must be catching up with him. Aurora
borealis, the icy skies at night.
He knows the Pocahontas he adores
these days will change, move, marry. She’ll go by
another name. He dreams from door to door,
thinks of lists and codes he couldn’t turn to lore,
the messenger myths strung across the sky.
Above the desk, my charts of yearly thoughts,
the zodiac turned to Bloom. I sit and smoke,
wonder if he’ll lose his hold on the route.
It rains, and rusts my bike and rail and lock.
How lazy I’ve become, now that I’ve got
neither neighbor’s knock nor letter’s luck.