the mailman blues

i saw the mailman
the other day. he was
slouched over with
his heavy bag, the
leather strap cutting
into his pale blue
shirt and shoulder.
he was sweating,
and out of breath,
leaning against a
hydrant before moving
on to the next row
of houses to deliver
mail. i'm done, he
said to me as i
approached him.
i can't do this
anymore. it's
not the junk mail
and the ads, or
circulars, it's my
wife, i think she's
cheating on me with
another mailman who
does my route. the
other day she had
a postage stamp stuck
to her thigh, and
there was an imprint
of an overseas
stamp inked onto her
lower back. she's
distant and distracted.
she's no longer doing
her bills online.
i don't get it. i
love her, i really do.
i shake my head and
hand him my letter
to my ex wife with
her alimony check inside.
hang in there, i tell
him. the load will
get lighter with time.
so what it's in the bag
for me today, jimmy?