“Mail’s In”

I am locked in an eternal struggle with paper. I trash it, shred it, file it, use it, reuse it, recycle it, and constantly strive to reduce it in my life. My efforts are in vain: it just keeps coming in the door. I haven’t given up yet, but I have begun to despair.

Recently, while contemplating this unrelenting nemesis, I was moved to commemorate my battle in verse. I shared it with a few Toastmaster friends, and they encouraged me to put it up here. With profuse apologies to Edgar Allan Poe, I offer this semi-original composition:

THE POSTMAN

Once upon a gloomy Monday,
While I pondered vast and sundry
Piles of mail that had been stacking up for almost half a year,
I began to feel unable—
Could I hope to clear the table?
It’s been ages since I’ve even caught a glimpse of its veneer.
I can do this, I decided,
And I won’t be stopped by fear.
I will make this surface clear.

Ah distinctly I remember,
It was August or September
When I last attempted to perform the task before me here.
I began with great ambition
But I soon lost all volition
And the daunting job before me soon relieved me of my cheer.
I had barely scratched the surface
When my hope did disappear
As I noticed: Postman’s here.

Even though that effort fizzled,
My new purpose fairly sizzled.
I determined that this eyesore would be gone before New Year.
I began the job by sorting
Garbage mail from that reporting
Information that I needed, though the lines began to blear,
Then there came a heavy footstep
And the dog barked in my ear—
Heaven help me! Postman’s here.

In the piles I found the latest
Flyers that announced the greatest
Sales of merchandise awaiting customers both far and near,
Catalogs of goods and service,
Notices that made me nervous,
I began to doubt my purpose and my will began to veer.
Patience was the thing I needed,
And perhaps an ice cold beer.
Then the bell rang. Postman’s here!

Daily I renewed my vigor,
But the stacks were getting bigger!
How could mail be multiplying right before my eyes? How queer!
I recycled all the pages,
Filed away the bills in stages—
There were never any wages paid me for this new career,
So it shouldn’t be surprising
Though my effort was sincere
It soon failed me—Postman’s here!

How it happened, there’s no knowing,
But the pile just kept on growing.
Soon it mounted high enough it almost touched the chandelier!
Lest my home become a hovel,
I attacked it with a shovel!
Then an avalanche engulfed me and my peril brought a tear.
“Is there no one who can save me?”
Then a figure did appear.
Not salvation—Postman’s here!

The saga is still going on.
From late at night until the dawn
I struggle to control the mail—my hear is strong, my purpose clear—
Yet the flow is unrelenting,
Still persisting, still preventing
Me from dining on my table, furniture I once held dear.
Will I ever best this monster?
Mount its head upon my spear?
That’s unlikely—Postman’s here!

When life is over and the Fates
Escort me to Saint Peter’s gates,
I expect him to deport me southward with a grinning leer.
My early years are lost in haze—
Shameless nights and wasted days.
Only one consoling thought will comfort me as flames draw near:
Here, at least, I won’t be fighting
Stacks of mail I need to clear.
I stand corrected!—Postman’s here!