Au revoir Mailman Bob / Poem: May his feet rest for a long lo0ng while

There, I did it. Someone's gotta do it. Someone's gotta take charge of this great nation. The task fell to me, Your Little Ruthie. Fortunately the first man and I watched the terrific movie Truman yesterday, so I know the importance of... of...
well, speaking your mind and not giving in to corruption. I'm not saying I'm not corrupt, I served a time or two in the penitentiary for things I don't care to reveal, but hey, let's stop all this foolery and get serious.

The thing about having your own blog is you can write about anything you choose - and people will listen.

So. I took up a collection for the retiring Mailman Man. Do not get the wrong impression. Mailman Bob is definitely not shy and retiring. He's a mouthful. And a half. I love these short sentences. Peppered my novel with em. Am waiting to hear. Yesterday I found the entire online novelwriting class on my saved emails. Oh, the novels that deservedly will never be published. Readers! Do not get the idea that I'm saving YOUR email cuz it meant so much to me.

I save nothing! All is air and as rapidly evaporating as the snow on toppa my birdbath. I spose the birds can take a teeny taste of snow and let it dissolve in their ... do they have mouths?

So I took up a collection. And went to the bank and asked for a crisp fifty. A C-note would've been better but we arbiters for the common good feel that mailmen make a good living and Our Bob was able to retire at the youthful and still sexy age of 52, having served four yrs in the Navy and having had that count toward his retirement. I think. Don't EVER quote me or you'll most likely be wrong.

I wrote Mailman Bob a short letter on New Directions stationery - no, not that New Directions, but mine own New Directions where you don't know the meaning of suffering until you've had manic depression, as she likes to call it cuz of its horrific frightening name that does justice to the way we feel, or people w/depression, a terrible name for it signifies nothing, melancholia would be far better, how bout melancholia unto death, far far better, and of course the long-suffering loved ones.

Who is my loved one? Anyone out there love me? Please send your love poems to the below address. Ach! Scott is a romantic. He's taking me out for Valentine's Day. He will do anything I ask including hang up a falling gutter except read my blog. "Why should I read something I already know about?"

Good point, darling. Read it anyway you S.O.B.

After I wrote the below poem plus the letter YOU WILL NEVER SEE, you nosy nosy-and-so, I drove down my quiet street to the Willow Grove post office. While driving I felt acutely sad and missing Mailman Bob. I think I'll check into a mental hospital instead of attempting suicide.

MAY HIS FEET REST FOR A LONG LONG WHILE

This path is for you, Mailman Bob,
I whispered as I shoveled the snow from my lawn

These letters are for you, Mailman Bob,
as I lifted my mailbox and tucked them inside

Oh, the things I do for you
and then I remembered
There is
no longer
Mailman Bob.

How your truck
would chug up our hill
the sound unforgettable
a Mahler symphony
I heard under the blankets
or cooking in the kitchen
it must be
Mailman Bob.

The sight of you would cheer me
a man indefatiguable
your blue cap with shiny visor
striped leggings
a tuxedo
informal
while warm weather wear
had Bob in shorts and long socks
striding up the runway of Cowbell
sex symbol in blue

Walking always walking
up steep Sleighride
satchel flung across your back
Santa bearing
mortgage overdue notices
Verizon bills
birthday cards with Gary Cooper stamps
a love letter from overseas

More than a mailman
you served
as counselor
to the woman with melancholy after she gave birth
consoler to Nancy after Charley died
or herald telling of old man Leonard’s death
no wonder they put the commode out on trash day
but never would you taste my soup or
a slice of my whole-wheat bread
the next mailbox
always your pursuit

They’re bidding for your route
a good one, Mailman Terry said,
low volume,
not too many hills
neighborly people
the woman in the yellow house, par example,
the Adams family with their windchimes
and waving flags

Will the birds in my birdbath miss you?
Do they twitter to the birds in Bensalem
that after work you sit in your recliner
with a cup of Folger’s instant
resting your legs
looking out the window
at the freshly fallen snow
exulting
Never again, never again.

- Ruth Z Deming