Friday, March 14, 2008


I was greeted today by a gruntled
postal worker. He smiled at my approach,
pleasantly asked how he could help me, grinned
at ever-growing lines of customers.
He was endlessly patient as I changed
my mind at least twice, efficiently gave
me stamps, and wished me well. At noon, he lunched
with laughing co-workers at a sunny
street cafe, hurrying back to relieve
a tired colleague. He barely remembers
the shotgun in his locker, a black stick
used on days like these to prop open bright
shimmering windows and let in airy
breezes to waft away murderous dreams.

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