Fall 2011 / Issue 90

Ryland Bowman

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.