When The Postman Rings

When the postman rings I spring for the door,

     With a step that is springy and fleet;

I’ve watched for his form with pulse quick and warm,

     Since ever he turned up the street.

For tucked in the packet of letters he holds,

     Methinks there are checks fat and lean;

So when the bell rings I go as with wings,

     For the checks that my vision has seen.

When the postman rings I am there in a flash,

     And I seize the letters like mad;

And I tear them ope with a new-born hope,

     For a check maketh all poets glad.

Then a heap of jokes and poems fall out,

     The same old travel-stained things;

And the checks I see all read “N.G.”,

     And I’m sad when the postman rings.

March 22, ‘96

B. Courier,

Jan. 24, ‘97