On Friday my postman told me his name.
After 18 months I realised I’d never asked.
As he reached a midway L
his tongue licked his first-class teeth.
The shine in his eye was a welcome mat
buckling under stacks of the word Colin.
The way he rings my doorbell to hand me envelopes
that easily could have fit through the letter box
and picks up the conversation from where we left off
instead of delivering unwelcome small talk
is enough to tell me I’m not just a number.
I wonder if anyone has ever said my name
in their mind’s ear as much as Colin.

© Carl Burkitt 2020