Poetry by Richard Wink

On route
A pouting widow in her bathrobe
is not sexy when you walk door to door
with a sack on your back
and your mind not on the job
you are more concerned with your knee
and if it will hold up
The still faces and guilty greetings
“Morning”
“Afternoon”
“Nice Weather?”
all released over and over
from dry lips hardly in the moment
already in the distance
whizzing to the Garage to collect the next load
already sorted by yours truly in the depot
where men sang along to the radio
and the women chime bawdy
in the minority.
The odour of morning farts, hot coffee
and poor man’s aftershave
sound-tracked by the incessant flicking of paper hitting mail slots
on the sort.
I continue troubled and sheepish
learning about the job
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