get back in the game

I have an argument with the mailman.
I confront him
on the porch before he puts
my mail into the slot.
what's the deal, I ask him.
I haven't any good mail in months.
no sappy greeting cards, no postcards
from a far, no love letters
with lipstick on them, or a dab
of perfume,
nothing, nothing but junk,
flyers for lambchops
or chicken necks on sale
at the grocery store.
he looks at me, tipping his
pith helmet in the sun
and says. too bad for you.
maybe you need to make more
friends. i'm not responsible
for your lack of good mail.
maybe you should get a life.
I let out a sigh. he's right.
damn him. get busy, he yells,
as he goes down the street
with his heavy sack. step it
up brother and get back in
the game. you can do it.
now go back in there and take
a shower, use soap.
and shave, you're a mess.