Past Tense Postal Man

The sixties were good to him . . . in his mind, he’s still there.
Grizzled and bearded, weary and wise, stoic and stoned,
he plays too much foos ball and drinks too much beer,
and still wears a bandanna around his long stringy hair.
He’s a man with a mission, but forgot what it was,
wasted and wistful, a sweet generous guy,
he shares his home, his big screen t.v., and booze,
the friendly neighborhood hound in a chemical buzz.

Vietnam has a lot to do with how he is today;
nightmares still get him, so he sits up late a lot;
three kids, one made special – the genetics of agent orange;
he doesn’t see much of them, thinks it’s better that way.
A patriot who paid with his mind and his drive,
one divorce behind him, he still can’t relate.
He’s full of good intentions, promises, and dreams;
he tries, but can’t focus; he’s just glad to be alive.

He drives real fast, but talks real slow,
stopping and thinking, plodding and plowing
through allegory, memories, metaphors, and mayhem
in a mind more in sync with a time thirty years ago.
He’s a Woodstock kind of guy in a Hip Hop kind of world,
a genuine hippie still wearing his first bell bottoms
and using his old bong . . . a man still growing and rolling his own.
A rebel without a cause, still tie-dyed and politically pure.

A man in blue delivering the mail and his philosophy
to anyone who will take an hour, share a beer, and listen
to a mind filled with facts, fantasy, fluff, and wonder.
Intelligence evident, but like a hare in a snare, it is caught
between the past and the present, what was and what is.
He’s casual and cool, and sometimes confused
he’s laid back and loaded, funny and fun,
whistling and wandering out to the garden to take a whiz.

To those lucky women who know, he is good in the sack,
sensual and sonorous, tactile and tender, a touch gentle
and thorough, knowing and sure, tongue and fingers
map new territory and make up for what his penis may lack.
He’s a good reliable lover, philosopher, and friend,
the neighborhood weirdo, harmless and warm,
a little bit matted and mystic, holistic and reeling,
maybe dented and dated, but a guru on the mend . . .
just loping through, in his blue postal uniform.

— Elaine Pedersen ©

 

 

 

 

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