The Mailman
From the third floor window
you watch the mailman’s slow progress
through the blowing snow.
As he goes from door to door
he might be searching
for a room to rent,
unsure of the address,
which he keeps stopping to check
in the outdated and now
obliterated clipping
he holds, between thickly gloved fingers,
close to his eyes
in a hunched and abruptly
simian posture
that makes you turn away,
quickly switching off the lamp.
