Our postman swings along the street
In rain and wind, in cold or heat.
Often he makes a short detour
Across some lot to a house demure.
Then off to a grand estate far back
He hurries again from his usual track.
When he grows weary of carrying mail,
(Just in his mind) he hoists a sail
Or boards a plane for realms afar
And travels to where his postmarks are.
New York – Chicago – What’s that? – Mexico!
An airmail letter! Of course he’ll go!
The fifth in a series of my great-grandma’s poems.