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Your own little memory carol, Max? You’re still not really near a white xmas, are you… Doug On Dec 24, 2014, at 12:17 AM, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > Happy holidays everyone from Max in Seattle > > (pining for a warm Melbourne…) > > Christmas Mails - and Females > (Seattle 2014 / Auckland 1960) > > Postie, postie, don’t be slow - > be like Elvis, go man go. > > Winter dark - parcels late > via the Postal Service man > reach these front doors in great > piles - and still more in his van. > > Ah, those Decembers - > my Auckland ones of old, > hard slog, long hours > (overtime, not badly-paid) > > standing in for Santa > and his sack of parcels, > before they needed a > phrase like snail-mail, > > in suburbs I’d haunted > as a schoolboy biking - > now I was working - > uniformed postie - > > as early as six a.m. > doggedly sorting upstairs > at the ‘Postmen’s Branch’ > alongside some smart > > women and less smart men; > bundling the letters, > packing my leather bag, > shouldering it to the bus stop, > > munching a back-seat snack, > getting down in such mild > places as Sandringham, > Balmoral (totally unlike > > the British places they were > named after), trudging > rain or shine, zigzagging > their streets, circumventing > > their unkennelled dogs > maddened by the postie’s whistle > regulations insisted on; > fielding the tiresome words > > from pensioners at their gates: > anything for me but bills? > Politeness might earn a gift > come Christmas Eve - > > bright-wrapped chocolates - > some boring card, more like. > The parcels! vans had left > bags of them at key spots - > > here postie crouches, > repacks his bag, trudges on. > Summer sun shines down, > scorching brow, pate and neck. > > Later they’ll hurt, flake > and peel, ears, neck > and forearms. Pause to drink, > orange juice preferred. > > Or while a rain-squall > buckets down on him, > he ducks to a veranda > lurking for shelter, > > slipping from their wrapper > Time Magazine, > Playboy, or whatever > furthers his education. > > Onward - sunshine breaks > out - dogs and pensioners > are watching at their gates. > The mail goes through. > > Back at the Branch, sort > mail till nine, joke, admire > post-women’s tanned legs, > their so-skimpy attire - > > uniforms not for them, > insubordinate > sisterhood, fastest > workers - equal-paid. > > Postie, postie, don’t be slow - > be like Elvis, go man go. Douglas Barbour [log in to unmask] Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations & Continuation 2 (UofAPress). Recording Dates (Rubicon Press). that we are only as we find out we are Charles Olson