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.