Herodotus<\/a>).\u00a0 Nor did I know that he was a poet!<\/p>\nHe sent me this poem, which I publish here with his permission.\u00a0 The title alludes to the syndrome that is the occupational hazard of postal workers, whose task seems so easy and pastoral, but which can be so harrowing that it sends some postal workers off the deep end.<\/p>\n
What does this poem, which is not explicitly devout at all, tell us about the doctrine of vocation?<\/p>\n
GONE POSTAL<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nDriving the Brooklyn route<\/span><\/p>\nBenson, King, Shoo Street in<\/span><\/p>\nthe village<\/span><\/p>\nAmidon, Mortensen,\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>the county roads.<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nIn the Fall the yellow maples\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\nat the\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>Jug Prairie Cemetery<\/span><\/p>\ngleam and overwhelm,\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\ndriving through a mad golden tunnel<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nIn Winter a five am snowfall<\/span><\/p>\nleaves the roadsides indistinct<\/span><\/p>\nand chill, strangely welcoming<\/span><\/p>\nI ski the old mail truck carefully\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\ndown Smith Road,<\/span><\/p>\nthe first one through, before the plows,<\/span><\/p>\nsteep plunges into narrow valleys<\/span><\/p>\nsharp climbs up ridges of driftless\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\nberms,\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>through deep woods, a pine forest,<\/span><\/p>\nhunting addresses.<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nI once drove an aging 80\u2019s postal van<\/span><\/p>\n45 mph down a highway<\/span><\/p>\nthen pulled into a driveway.<\/span><\/p>\nBacking out, five miles per hour,<\/span><\/p>\nthe axle broke<\/span><\/p>\nA terrifying noisome clang<\/span><\/p>\nI thought I\u2019d backed into something!<\/span><\/p>\nThe front end slumped like a lame oxen,<\/span><\/p>\nEvery postal worker\u2019s\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>nightmare.<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n*****<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nEngine fires.\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/span>Horns that don\u2019t function<\/span><\/p>\nthen function but won\u2019t stop<\/span><\/p>\nthen don\u2019t function<\/span><\/p>\nWipers that don\u2019t wipe<\/span><\/p>\nRendering a sightless smear,<\/span><\/p>\n(The window spray mechanism<\/span><\/p>\nhasn\u2019t worked since the mid 90\u2019s);<\/span><\/p>\nSignals that don\u2019t signal<\/span><\/p>\nthen signal<\/span><\/p>\nthen don\u2019t signal.<\/span><\/p>\nBack gates frozen shut.<\/span><\/p>\nA fizzy little fan the only relief<\/span><\/p>\nfrom a tin box hot summer.<\/span><\/p>\nHeater huffing a pitiable breath<\/span><\/p>\nin minus five weather.<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n*******<\/span><\/p>\nI name my regular deliveries according<\/span><\/p>\nto the dogs and cats I encounter<\/span><\/p>\nthe sweet friendly old hounds who climb\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\nwillingly up into the van<\/span><\/p>\nand get lost in the back among the packages<\/span><\/p>\nthe kitten litters that skitter when I approach<\/span><\/p>\nthe odd old cat who succumbs to a quick scratch<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nOr<\/span><\/p>\nwhen I slipped on ice under an inch of snow<\/span><\/p>\non a driveway, landing hard, the scanner<\/span><\/p>\nslamming into my leg, leaving a three<\/span><\/p>\nweek bruise.<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nOr<\/span><\/p>\nThe potholes along an endless gravel<\/span><\/p>\ndriveway, weaving as I go,\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nOr<\/span><\/p>\nA house deep in the woods<\/span><\/p>\nbeside a pond<\/span><\/p>\nthat I think my wife might like.<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nOr<\/span><\/p>\nthe mulberry tree in full fruit<\/span><\/p>\ndripping berries<\/span><\/p>\nI stop alongside, fingers turning purple<\/span><\/p>\ngorging myself from the bottom step of\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\nthe postal van<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nI name the many places I\u2019ve found to pee,<\/span><\/p>\naround a left hand bend<\/span><\/p>\nno one can see me coming or going<\/span><\/p>\nAnd the few times<\/span><\/p>\nI shat like a bear in the woods.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\nMiles from comfort.<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nI name those who leave welcoming<\/span><\/p>\ncrates of snacks<\/span><\/p>\nA lady makes pretzels broasted in butter<\/span><\/p>\nand pepper,\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\nA lady leaves cokes and candy.<\/span><\/p>\nOne bakes cookies in December.<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n*****<\/span><\/p>\nAs I walk up to a door<\/span><\/p>\nPlastic sealed spur in hand<\/span><\/p>\nI try to guess the contents.<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cWE DELIVER GODDAMNED SOCKS!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nShouted a flustered annex director one late afternoon<\/span><\/p>\nBut it could be a ten thousand dollar check<\/span><\/p>\nA bottle of nitroglycerine<\/span><\/p>\nlady\u2019s underclothes<\/span><\/p>\na child\u2019s bauble.<\/span><\/p>\nOnce,\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>a table saw.<\/span><\/p>\nCome Spring,\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>boy\u2019s bicycles.<\/span><\/p>\nHot Pots at Christmas<\/span><\/p>\nCandies in February.<\/span><\/p>\nThe vast amazonian array.<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n*****<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
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<\/a><\/p>\n