Poetry by John Grochalski Φ Photography by Dan Nelson
the mail carrier
comes into my job
her ebony skin glistening
from the humidity
carrying an ass you could happily ride
all the way to fantasyland
she says, goddamned, it’s sticky out there
as she slaps down the mail
and wipes her brow
you know, i say, tomorrow is going to be worse
because sometimes i like to be that guy
a sly smile, she rolls her eyes and says
whatever to tomorrow, i’m off from this shit
oh, big plans? i ask
she says, no…un-for-tun-ately
i have to attend a car safety training
mandatory, i say
the american workplace is always shoving
that kind of crap down our throats
existence distilled down to make
some middle-manager’s yearly quota
or maybe it’s because i’ve had five accidents
with the mail truck in two years, she says
christ, i say
but whatever to that too, she says
she hands me the mail
and waves hot pink painted fingers
she winks, see you later
i watch her go
that silky hair obsidian in the LED lights
rolling down her stained back
socks pulled up like a boy scout
that ass wrapped in midnight blue shorts
shaking all the way toward the humid sky
thinking that i better start
watching the streets when i see her
out there in the wild
instead of watching that booty
because at my age a man’s health is worth way more
then a quick flash of erotic delight
as it drives recklessly down a dead end street
or through a red light
when you’re caught snoozing
maybe even looking the wrong way.
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