“I’m just a common man,” I once
heard someone loudly say,
“I’m poor, I’m old! I work too hard!
What good’s another day?”
Then he walked across his carpet
to his new color T.V.
Lit another big cigar —
and cursed his poverty.
I know another man who in
a simple house resides,
delvers mail throughout the day
and works a farm besides.
Then runs home to his family,
to sing, to feel their touch —
“Oh Lord,” he cries, “I’m special!
You’ve given me so much!”
(A poem my mother and uncle used in my grandpa’s funeral, a poem that grandpa had found in the 1960’s. He was the country mailman, and grew pinto beans and various grains on his 80 acres in his spare time, living in the same house since 1956 when they moved out from Kansas. I will leave it to you to decide which man in the poem was my grandpa.)