there was an old man with magnetic hair who followed the postman along on his rounds
from the earliest sunrise to the last glints of light he would deliver his words with the mail
and nobody listened though his hair stood in a corona of silvery mist
and everyone locked their doors to him and left their brooms in the yard
for nobody knew he was speaking directly
and honest, without ink or pen
and at night while he slept they ate letters and words
and spit them back out again.