Winter Prompts #5: The Postman


Winter Prompt #5


He called himself Havenor Greene

when he wrote poems.

The rest of the time he was

Mr. Barry, the R.F.D. postman

who every morning drove up

to our mailbox on High St.,

leaned way over the passenger seat,

and delivered the mail.  Mother,

who talked all the time

and got to know everybody—

who knew how she knew

about Mr. Barry’s secret name?—

told him her eleven-year old daughter

wrote poems, and the next thing

I knew, I was reading

to the Poetry Society of Vermont

in the upstairs room of some building

in St. Albans.  The older poets

were deeply respectful of me

and my convoluted rhymes.

After that, if I chanced to meet him

at the mailbox, Havenor Greene

talked to me as if I were a colleague,

as if what I was doing was real.

2 comments on “Winter Prompts #5: The Postman

  1. Maggie in Vermont says:


  2. Christine Moore says:

    What a nice story as well as a nice poem.

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