Waiting for the mailman
to bring the visitors.
He’s got many stops
on solo farms like this.
The sky is turning surly,
starts to spit’n’ growl;
hope the mailman makes it
before the first downpour.
The road outside is long,
next house, two miles away;
the property is green and rich,
just right for grazing beef.
Don’t hear from people much:
letters are like gold;
still keep hoping anyhow
for what the mailman brings.
He’s later than usual;
the rain is drenching all.
Perhaps he’s holed up back a-ways
near Pepperstone Pass.
Catalog’d be good right now;
an ad for laundry soap,
or some outlandish sweepstakes offer,
useless toy or such.
It may appear eccentric,
waiting on the post,
but even junk mail has its place
for those who are alone.