I am the Mailman now.

As I sit in my corner,

All hunched over.

The time seems

To disappear into

Years I don’t

Remember. When

The pens run out

Of ink and the phones

Don’t ring: My chair

Will still spin. The

People will still sin,

And eventually die.

The obits will pour in,

like that tall glass of

Lemonade on a

Hot, Muggy July

Day. Who is here

To type? Who is here

To proofread?

These obits

Won’t publish

Themselves.