【by Sydney Smith】

The mailman from Westbrook
with skin tanned from blithe rays
has a cat by the name of Solomon
and a coat rack to the left of his front door.
He admires you, Wanderer,
who will one day sew words together
as he does people and places.
He likes cranberries in winter,
and intimacy in his conversation,
and the feel of his chin on blistered hands.
He sips at whiskey and birth control,
vitriol,
and soot–
anything he can get his hands on, really.
The mailman from Westbrook
raises his middle finger
toward the elephant in the room,
who wears a ballgown,
and he won’t be able to fall asleep tonight because of it.
He eats away at animosity, though
he is both Cain and Abel
and the rock by which he died.
He feels
left behind
and elusive at the same time;
he feels like a felony when he lies.
Can you blame him,
for what he is inside?
Does he make you itchy on your thighs,
an experiment,
or wet in the eyes?
Will you ever understand
the mailman from Westbrook?
And will you know again?

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