The postman, like the barista,
is another modern centaur.
You rarely see his legs.
Ours is jolly,
all grin and belly.
Pleased when I meet him
at the box
to spare him the walk.
“Brought you a present,”
he loves to say,
leaning the parcel over the
sill of the square window
that serves as vantage
and counter for him.
“You’re the best.”
He is.
Sometimes I bring him
a napkin of cookies.
“Do I look like a guy
who says no to cookies?”
he laughs, hands out.
Wasn’t Chiron, best of
centaurs, also a carouser
and also of good cheer?
Wasn’t Chiron,
like my postman,
skilled at way-finding
and healing–
and kind?
