names and numbers

my mailman,
Ming,
calls me by my full name
when he steps
onto the porch
to slide the mail into the slot.
sometimes I see
him coming
and open the door
before he gathers
mail from his deep leather
pouch.
he says my name, first and last,
as if he knows me.
the circulars and bills,
the rare letter,
handwritten.
Christmas cards. packages.
I wonder if he knows everyone
in this way.
lying in bed at night,
his grey uniform removed,
his feet still moving along
the paved
route of his life.