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I delivered the truth
for years and years:
revered postman.
The goods yielded smiles
from tenants and guests
and not one attempt
to give back a bad.
Yes, the job had perks,
proud every time,
uniformed and chosen.
But this fine monday,
my day of rest,
the doorbell rang,
it was delivered.
I get visits
now and then,
bad and good.
The uniform
is kept impeccable.
I still have boxes
in the basement,
each full to the brim,
still always, outdated.

28 Oct 06

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It reads smooth enough. The picture this makes in my head: a retired post man with a different job now (that gives him Mondays off) sits in his livingroom, then receives a package at the door and states that there are boxes of undelivered mail in his basement from when he slacked off and didn't deliver what he was supposed to. Did your poem give (me) your reader the correct picture of what you wanted to relay? I am thinking it probably didn't, but if that was what you wanted to show, then you did it!
 — NeighborDi

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