I opened the door…
and, there stands
my beautiful pal the mailman
with all that junk mail
in a bag slung across
her lovely shoulder
riding her scooter
that’s how we deliver
the mail here on banana island.
she always knocks twice
and I come outside
and we pick bananas
off my tree.
we smoke our Cuban cigars
and rock in those woven chairs…
when no one knows
nor cares what goes on here on our banana island
that being drunk on that route
makes no difference to anyone here
we talk about back in her day
it keeps the noggin cool
in such a repetitive job
and the lonely old geezer
waits for his mail patiently as time flows by
wearing a sweat stained straw hat
with a drink in his hand
and the breeze blows smoothly
across the front porch
as sail boats all
glide by in their own time
no hurry at all
never in a hurry
on top smooth water
and time stands almost still
but time is growing short
as she loves to talk
to the grandpa she’d adopted
she now calls family.
