Delivery men

the UPS delivery man in brown shorts
loads his trolley of boxes
his diesel engine idling in the drive
he is completing the eighth hour of his day
jarring me awake
his eyes assume my occupation
summonsing dreams from a corrugated past
lifting a pen to write his own epigraph
the poet does not blame him for a lack
of significance, nor the world for
ignoring his magnificence
tomorrow’s wonder will be outlived by routine
the delivery man, me
lunching on our delicacies
sport score and cola, coffee
a ham sandwich—we look forward
to a brew at dusk
a worn seat
the pattern of our days marked
by a favorite sitcom, a mother’s meal
and that transformative state
that poets call divine and honest men
well, they rest
now again, the man rolls
his trolley down a path
happy to have his hands on equipment
to have a vehicle and direction
and I am happy to have him
his engine grinding into gear
falling back to idle again

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