the postman

the mailman
is crying as he slouches
with his heavy
bag.
his grey uniforms
wet from the sun and labor.
what's wrong
I ask him
as he hands me my mail.
i'm tired, he says.
tired
of this life.
the news I bring is rarely
good.
rarely bad.
it's nothing
like it used to be.
no one cares
anymore if I come or go.
if i'm late,
or don't arrive at all.
no one looks out the window
for me,
or waits by the door.
the world has
changed.