O, the everyday things
the everyday things
the mailman
early mornings
stuffs bills
and flyers
letters and
postcards
into the house-
he doesn't believe
in poems
and still lifes
in rain
and snow
as poetic
image
and wears down his soles
and lugs his mail bag-
he would
much rather
dig in the garden
plant a few flowers
drink a beer
and lie in the shade
forgetting the letters
forgetting the doors
and all these things
and all these things.