the good deed

i see the mailman
through the window with his heavy
leather bag,

today he has two.
filled to the brim with letters,
cards,
ads.

he's dragging, so i throw on some
clothes and shoes
and got out to ask him if can help.

sure, he says, giving me his
hat and lighting a cigarette.

you take the odds, he says, and
i'll take the evens.

i look at him and say, but i'd
rather have the evens.

he blows smoke into my face, no,
he says.

it's my way or the highway.
well?

oh for god's sake, i tell him,
i'll take the odds,
and start my route.

but i resent it the whole way.
and it's not as much fun as i
thought it would be.

why are all these dogs barking
and trying to get through
the door to bite me?